Molesley's Garden
by sakurasencha
Summary: A collection of Downton Abbey ficlets. Multiple characters and pairings.
1. Daisy and Molesley: A Romantic Interlude

**Daisy and Molesley: A Romantic Interlude**

_A valet's job is never done_, Molesley inwardly sighed on his way down to the servant's hall one afternoon. _And neither, apparently, is a kitchen maid's_, he amended, quirking an eyebrow and holding his tongue as he came into full view of two imposing cooks bearing down on one trembling Daisy.

_Not quite a fair match_, he considered, Mrs. Patmore brandishing a meat cleaver dangerously close to the quivering girl's forehead.

"No, Daisy! You put the garnish on _after_ it's finished cooking!" she bellowed, throwing her arms up in the air in defeat.

"We don't have anyone nearly so dozy down at Crawley House, I can assure you!" Mrs. Bird added, unable to resist throwing in a comment about her own superiority in kitchen management.

The garden party was almost upon them, Mrs. Bird had been requested to stay on to help smooth the transition back to Mrs. Patmore's capable hands, and Molesley and the rest of the Crawley House staff were still spending the better part of their days at the great house. Mr. Crawley had just busted a button on his favorite coat, and Molesley had thought it a nice idea to do his mending with company rather than in solitude. Now he was starting to regret the social inclination that had brought him down to the servant's hall and within throwing range of the two exasperated cooks.

They continued their harangue, while Daisy continued her cowering. Molesley watched quietly from the sidelines till the older ladies were called away by the housekeeper to check over the supplies in the storeroom. Left alone to her ineptitude and hopelessness, Daisy collapsed weak kneed into a nearby chair, and cradled her burdened head in her hands.

"You all right, Daisy?" he gingerly asked.

Her hands dropped from her head to rest on the table, and she proffered a weak smile. Perhaps meant to be brave, the meekly upturned corners of her small, quivering mouth only served to highlight her pitiable state.

"Don't let them get to you," he encouraged, reaching out a hand to place over hers. "I know they're rough, but it's only because they know you can handle it. They can see you have promise, and want to push you in the right direction."

"Do you think so?" she asked in earnest.

He looked down at his hand and was surprised to find it entwined with hers. When had it gone from platonic resting to tender grasping? Molesley was a bit surprised at the situation he'd found himself in. Alone in the servant's hall, save but a young, impressionable kitchen maid, speaking softly words of encouragement and hope, their hands clasped naturally together.

Why, it was almost romantic!

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><p><em>He seems nice,<em> Daisy admitted to herself. _I suppose he is a bit old. And of course he could have never been a sportsman!_

Mr. Molesley had yet to answer her question. He'd become suddenly silent and still, and was gazing pensively at their clasped hands. Daisy was surprised how much composure she retained at the gesture. Her normal responses to such overtures usually included furious blushing and intelligible stammering, but for some reason Molesley made her feel comfortable, secure; and the only blip in the calm of her heart was a slightly elevated pulse, which was really more pleasant than anything.

"I do think so," he finally answered. "I've seen you about the kitchens. You've got a knack for cooking, and even with those old birds aiming at you like a firing squad, I've never seen you give up, not once." Her smile warmed through his speech. Daisy felt his other hand come to rest on one of her pinked cheeks, which were now glowing brightly with the rare praise.

"I believe you'll be a great cook some day, Daisy."

Even when his thumb started to stroke her cheek, tracing the freckled contours, she didn't feel awkward in the slightest, and returned his affection by giving his hand a small squeeze. She was slightly taken aback at how natural this moment, this interlude with the older valet felt.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again: I've never in me life not ordered my own supplies or managed my own store room. We're the ones who cook it, we should be the ones to order it!"

Mrs. Bird's angry voice preceded her entrance, and gave Daisy and Molesley enough time to arrange themselves into a more innocent looking position. _Act natural!_ Daisy told herself, hoping her eyes conveyed the same message to the valet. The embarrassment that hitherto had been absent reared forcefully with the appearance of an audience, and Daisy and Molesley suddenly found they could look anywhere except at each other. Neither of the cooks raised an eyebrow or cast them a knowing look, and before long Daisy was summoned again to Mrs. Patmore's side and left to accompany her back to the kitchen.

As Daisy made her way through the door she tossed her head around for a quick peek back. Molesley was watching her, a smile playing on his lips, and a twinkle in his eyes that she could only call romantic.


	2. Anna and Branson:In the Company of Fools

_Poor Anna and Branson. They both needed a little bit of love. That's why I issued the challenge, and that's why I ended up fulfilling it myself!_ _Written directly after episode 2.01. _**  
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><p><strong>Anna and Branson: In the Company of Fools<strong>

It was never his intention to pry, but Anna was sitting there, not bothering to hide her sorrow, and Branson can't help but stand quietly in the shadows for a few moments, pondering the fate of the once bright and happy housemaid as she heaves heavy sobs by the muted glow of candlelight.

There was a time when Anna was all confidence, Branson remembers. Like the dawning of day: a shining star rising up in her profession, sparkling with independence of mind and vision. But now that star has dimmed, snuffed out with the salty cries pouring forth into her small hands; and the tears – though not even shed on his behalf – still crash like wild waves against the dam he's built to keep his own ocean of sorrow at bay. He sways at their force, and wonders what it might be to have such passionate devotion reserved for him.

It would be best to turn away, he knows. Walk straight back out the door as if he'd never been there and leave the foolish girl to break her heart again and again over a man who was hardly worth the price of a ruined handkerchief. Yet brewing inside is a desire to comfort, and to somehow heal the open wounds bleeding out his heart with the balm of caring for hers.

"He's a fool, Anna, and you shouldn't let him treat you like that."

Anna startles at the voice, and looks up to see Mr. Branson leaning casually against the door frame, a book held loosely in the hand at his side, as hot blasts of shame quickly dry up the prickle in her eyes. A need for seclusion was what had brought her here, so late at night in the abandoned hall. She had assumed she'd found it, but had forgotten about the odd hours the chauffeur sometimes kept, letting the wax wane low into the small hours of morning as he filled his mind with the knowledge of the printed word.

He'll fly away one day, Anna is sure. Just like Gwen did, just like they all would, eventually.

Everyone except for her.

"Mr. Bates, I mean," he clarifies.

His frank tone, the one that she's always before appreciated in any young man, instead swells the painful tide already bursting from her chest.

"I know who you meant, Mr. Branson. What I don't know is why you feel it within your right to say such a thing to me!" she shoots back testily.

The words hit their mark. He leaves his vigil over the entryway, hands held up as a shield to her verbal sting, to stand directly before her. "I don't mean any disrespect," he assures her. "I've always thought you a strong and capable woman, and I only wanted to say that you deserve better than to be tossed aside like one of his Lordship's old collars."

Her mind reels from the audacity. Her mouth gapes at the bold reference. Her hands, still moistened with drops that have yet to dry, vibrate with the force of their tight grip on the chair. A hard shove backward sends out a loud scrape of wood on stone that screeches through the room as Anna jumps to her feet.

"And what would you know about it!" she says quietly, low and dangerous intensity boiling her words till potent with rage. "We're not all like you, Mr. Branson, just waiting for the world to make its big changes your always going on about! Some of us don't need all that. All I wanted was a simple life, with the one I love. How can you possibly know what it is to see that love, your one chance at happiness, throw it all back in your face, walk out the door and –" Grief steals away whatever more she had meant to say, while the hands that have recovered her eyes blind her to the pale face and stricken features set before her.

She's dealt a blow. Unknowingly, yes, but it still cuts deep. Branson considers leaving right then and there, but knows he can't leave her weeping alone into the open space, worse off than when he first arrived. He had meant to ease her pain, not aggravate it. He stares at her distraught form, an arms-length away, and Branson makes his decision. Two steps closer, and he removes the hands from her face and forces Anna to look into his.

"A few months ago," he begins, so quietly that Anna has to stretch her ears just to hear, "before Lady Sybil left for her training. I told her-" His throat clamps down, catching the confession before it can escapes past his lips.

"What?" she urges. "What did you tell Lady Sybil?" she asks, tears still flowing but despair momentarily forgotten in lieu of curiosity.

"I told her...that I loved her. I told her that I wanted to be with her. I said I would make something of myself one day, and that until I did I would devote every waking minute to her happiness." The declaration – one not even meant for her – still pricks at Anna's skin like slivers of burning ice. She shivers at their touch, and wonders what it might be to have such plain, unflinching devotion directed at her.

"And what did she say," she asks, not sure why she even bothers; for both Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil are still exactly where they ought to be, and it's obvious what her answer was.

"She said she was _terribly flattered_," he emphasizes the words like a stone falling in a bucket, plunked down flat in a tone Branson hopes sounds angry, but knows comes across as mostly pathetic. Anna leans in to peer at the young face through hazy amber air, and comes to a conclusion.

"Then she's a fool."

"No, I'm the fool!" he fires back. "For ever thinking that a girl like her would want a man like me!" The fire quickly burns itself to smoldering ash when he adds, defeated, "And why should she? Why would she give all this up –" his arms sweep around the room haphazardly "– grand homes and fine dresses – to live a life of hard work with a man born on the streets of Dublin, whose greatest accomplishment in life is getting a post as a chauffeur in her father's household?"

"I still think she's a fool. You're going to be great one day – I've always thought so – and Lady Sybil's going to regret what she said."

It's Branson's turn to lean in, warily searching out her dimly lit features for any tinge of sarcasm. But through the gloom he can see that Anna's not making fun of him, and instead reads only honest and open conviction in her deep blue eyes. Reassuring though it may be, it's still not quite enough to quell his doubts.

"Maybe."

"Not, 'maybe'," she whispers, bating her breath, close enough that she inhales his. Inside is an invisible force prodding them forward – beckoning them with a question skimming just outside their grasp – till her lips meet his and his arms come around her waist as they both attempt to find the answer.

It isn't starlight or sunlight. It's not fire or ice. Rather, it's warm and pleasant, just as any kiss should be.

And just what neither of them is looking for.

They break away as one.

"Anna, I don't –"

"I know, I know," she stops his protest while giving her head a small shake. "And neither do I. I was just thinking..." she trails off into a small, shy smile.

"What is it?" he asks.

"It would be nice, wouldn't it? If we could love each other?" There's no shyness anymore, only a flicker of wistfulness that passes between the two.

"Aye. It would be."

Her head settles down to rest on his shoulder, both savoring this falsely tender moment, and the fleeting vision of what might have been.

"What a pair we are!" she laughs into his chest. It rumbles under her cheek as he laughs in return. She backs away, only half a step, so they can see each other fully.

"A couple of gluttons for punishment. Will we ever learn, you think?" he wonders. This time she leaves the circle of his presence completely to stride over to the door.

"Not likely," she tosses back with something close to her old spark, before leaving the room altogether. Branson agrees wholeheartedly with her prediction, and with some measure of contentment settles down at the empty table to read with what is left of the candlelight.

They're still broken. But they know that now they can begin to heal. After all, they may both be fools – the biggest fools in all of England.

But at least they were in good company.

END


	3. Thomas,OBrien: The Slytherin Common Room

_So...this wasn't even a challenge. It was just a comment on an LJ thread. But I ficced it anyway, cause that's just how I roll, haha. _

_I should also add that it's been aaaages since I've even thought about Harry Potter, so inaccuracies may abound.  
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><p><strong>Slytherin!DATS (Downton Abbey Troll Society, i.e. Thomas and O'Brien)<strong>

Sarah felt a vein threaten to pop as she grit her teeth once more. Thomas may be her best friend, but if he tapped that quill one more time…

"Would you stop that?" she snapped. Thomas looked over in surprise, feigning innocence.

"What? My quill-tapping, you mean?"

Sarah rolled her eyes at the barely masked impertinence. The Slytherin common room was packed to the brim, each member of the house waylaid by piles of books and stacks of parchment. Finals week was nigh, and with Sarah already thick into the backlog of assignments and catch-up study sessions, she couldn't afford to entertain her younger housemate's cheek.

"_Yes_, I mean," she all but snarled. "Some of us are _trying_ to study!"

"Well I'm sick of all this studying!" Thomas replied, shutting his book with a thump of finality and looking up at her with a dangerous glimmer. "What do you say to blowing off a little steam?"

Sarah smirked. She knew well what Thomas' idea of "blowing off a little steam" amounted too: Trouble, and none of it the innocent kind. She chuckled at whatever misfortune would find its way to the Gryffindor tower this night.

"Don't think I wouldn't want to; but I've got eight more inches on this potions paper that won't write itself–"

"–I could fix you a spell to change that. It'll cost you, but–"

" –And you know how professor Crawley is about late assignments." Sarah pursed her lips at the thought of the strict Potion's Master. "Americans," she muttered under her breath, the very word a curse between her lips.

"No need to worry," Thomas urged. "Won't take long to accomplish, what I've got in mind."

Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Something for old Batesy?" she asked. Thomas was never much for variety, and her assumption proved correct when she saw her friend cock his head to the side with a smirk so catlike she could almost see the whiskers.

Thomas reached into his robe and retrieved a small, blue vial. "Essence of blueberry," he explained. "A few drops of this into someone's drink or food and they'll be covered in blue from head to toe."

"For how long?" she wondered. Thomas' smile widened to lengths even Sarah thought impossible.

"That remains to be seen."

"Hmmm…" Sarah assessed the plan. "Childish, but effective. Minimal long term damage, but maximum potential for humiliation." She returned her friend's smile, adding, "Sounds perfect for the intolerably priggish, uppity old fool!"

Thomas' eyes danced with her approval. "And I'm sure Miss Smith wouldn't mind matching her beloved's complexion when he escorts her to the Winter Ball!"

"Wouldn't mind a few drops for "darling Sybil" myself," Sarah confessed with a wistful sigh, shifting her gaze towards her suggested victim's elder sister lounging in a chaise by the door. Mary Crawley was all right, if a little too delicate for Sarah's tastes; but her youngest sister was beyond insufferable. She'd never forgotten what she'd heard fearless Sybil whispering about her to ginger Gwen last month in the bathroom.

"'Odious woman', my foot," Sarah ground out.

"There's plenty enough of this to go around, to any one we like," Thomas assured her, dangling the bottle in front of her nose and favoring it with a small shake.

Sarah snorted. Was she a horse supposed to be tempted by a carrot on a stick? "I suppose you'll try it during dinner," she surmised, casting a glance at the clock on the mantle. "Not too long now. Are you going to prance over to the Gryffindor table, all chummy like, and drop it into their cider while their backs are turned?"

Thomas scoffed, offended at the notion. "Nothing so unsubtle. I'll get me a Trojan Horse to do the nasty work." Thomas paused a few moments, a Rolodex of faces flipping through his mind. "That bloke Tom will do nicely. He gets on well with all that lot. We'll tell him it's an Elixir of Aptitude or some nonsense."

"You think Branson's going to buy that?" Sarah asked, skeptical. Branson may be a bit of an eager beaver, but he wasn't _stupid_. Well…most of the time, she amended, a recollection of the infamous "Dolores Dump Protest" (involving a strange combination of Dragon Dung Fertilizer, Fungiface Potion, and Professor Umbridge's head) flitting briefly through her mind.

"Oh, I know he will. Ravenclaws may have book smarts, I'll give them that, but their common sense can be–" Thomas held out a flat palm, and flashed a look that conveyed all he needed to say, "–if you know what I mean. Besides," he continued, "you've heard him give those speeches at dinner. That man could convince Voldemort to open a beauty parlor – he can convince a couple of no-brain Gryffindors to put a few drops of some elixir they've never heard of into their drinks. It _is_ finals week, after all – they'll all be scratching their eyes out for a way to get ahead."

Thomas saw his persuasive powers spread indecision across Sarah's face, and knew his effort would not be in vain. "So what do you say?" he offered again. "It won't take long to sort out the details and hatch our plan."

Sarah chewed the end of her quill, considering. A moment's thought later and she looked back at Thomas, grinning wickedly.

"I suppose this essay will have to wait!"


	4. Sybil and Branson: Light My Fire

****_I wrote this awhile ago as a birthday gift for **hat in a box**, my fellow S/B shipper and, more importantly, crack writer. Keep the crack coming, girl! We are the few and the proud! Just some fluffy S/B humor._

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><p><strong>Light My Fire<strong>

Out the window of his office he watched the seasons change. From summer to spring, from spring to autumn, and by winter the air was pitch black and biting by the time he departed for home each evening.

But the New Year had come and gone, and late winter afternoons provided a lengthier stretch of light for Branson on his short walk from his office to his home. The sky was still a rosy pink when he arrived at the front door of his flat to behold a familiar sight: His wife kneeling on the floor, coal-black smudges lining her hands and spotting her face, and surrounded by dozens of half-burnt matches that littered the dirty floor.

He entered loudly but wordlessly, giving Sybil ample time and opportunity to compose herself before she lifted her face to greet him. With a simple bun at her nape and a sturdy apron over her frock she was a far cry from the dainty miss he had once handed pamphlets to in the back seat of an expensive car, able to work and cook and enjoy every minute of it. But a uniform happiness prevailing all spectrums of life was not so easily achievable, even for one as tenacious as Sybil Branson, and unfortunately the century old stove installed into their flat still regularly managed to get the best of her, as her doleful look attested.

With a disgusted groan she lifted herself off the floor and stood before him, rubbing at her worn, drawn face. Branson stared peculiarly at the inky splotch that now graced the tip of her nose, but said nothing.

She grabbed his shoulders and shook vigorously.

"How am I supposed to be a proper mother when I can't even light a stove?" she demanded.

Branson's lips pressed to a thin line. There was a wrong way and a right way to answer that question – at least, he hoped there was a right way. Desperately he scraped his mind for the proper words to extinguish the meltdown he saw brewing.

"It's a very tricky stove," he replied evenly. He carefully detached himself from her grip and a few tentative steps brought him over to the unlit stove. Retrieving the bundle of unused matchsticks, he handed them to Sybil while retaining only one for himself. She watched with muted envy as he arranged the lumps of coal just so, expertly placed the kindling, deftly lit a single stick, and set the stove blazing in five minutes flat and with nary a squandered match to his name.

Branson flashed her a dubious smile over his shoulder – _All better? – _it seemed to ask, his puppy eyes melting away the lump in her throat, unleashing a torrent of emotion which made her awash in the desire to simultaneously hug and strangle him.

"I'm useless!" she wailed.

Branson was left to sigh over his failure, and viewed with concern the arms thrown into the air, confetti of matchsticks raining over her head hung low in defeat.

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><p>Branson was born with a romantic nature, if not quite a romantic tongue. If he'd known how important words were to wooing he would have paid more attention to the poetry shoved under his nose before summarily tossing it down to the schoolroom floor. Give him a roomful of union organizers or a political discourse over a round of beers and he could shine with ease, but for some reason his dear wife never seemed very impressed when he explained how their cooperative management rendered their marital bliss as free and unencumbered as an autonomous state enterprise, or when he expressed his gratitude that their common ownership of the heart eclipsed even the most utopian socialist agenda.<p>

But there were other ways Branson could exhibit his devotion, which did not require the regrettable usage of his vocal chords.

He sketched out another schematic when a perturbed throat grunted behind him.

"Are you completely finished, sir?" The shop owner had a sharp edge of irritation grazing his tone, but Branson, as usual, paid no heed.

"Not quite. Just a few more minutes, if you don't mind."

He quite clearly did mind, and said as much; but Branson ignored the harangue in favor of observing the object before him. He knew he would have to soak in as much detail as he could with this cursory research trip, and after several long and noisy minutes he nodded his head in satisfaction, flipped closed his journalist's notebook, and headed off to the junk yard.

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><p>She enjoyed her solitary walk from the ward to her flat. It gave her time to reflect and wind down from busy days of bandages and bodies. The walk itself was calm, restful. Each season held a different flavor, and early winter was crisp and cool, every breath of air sliding down her throat like a morsel of mint pudding. Cheery smudges of pink and blue painted the sky, and her mood was alert and lively when she arrived home to behold an unfamiliar sight: Her husband lying on the floor, black, oily smudges dotting the apron over his clothes, surrounded by piles of tools and parts that littered the freshly swept floor.<p>

Sybil stepped quietly inside, frowning. He better not be expecting her to help clean up his mess….

"Darling, _what_ are you doing?" The sudden voice sent Branson's forehead straight into the metal bin his upper half was buried. Sybil smiled – thank goodness for his incredibly thick skull – but frowned once more when she noticed a strange contraption that stood in place of her arch nemesis.

"What is that?" she asked, pointing at the glossy enameled box that her husband was crawling out of, rubbing at the tender spot.

"It's a gas stove!" he replied excitedly. "It takes less work to keep up than the coal-burning kind, and it's far easier to light. I thought you would like it, since you kept having so much trouble with the other one." He held out a single match, challenging her. "Want to give it a go?"

Sybil floundered to respond, moving her hands about her face at random.

"But I don't…a gas stove?….we can't even afford this!"

"Well I didn't _buy_ it!" She stared at him in abject horror, as if he'd just admitted to voting Tory while on his way back from a unionist rally. "There's no need for that look – I went down to the scrap heap and picked out some parts, then put it all together here."

Sybil eyed him dubiously.

"You can do that?"

"I build car engines, I can slap a stove together! And I remembered that the manager had told us when we first moved in that the lines had been put in a few years back, if we ever wanted to upgrade." He proffered her the match once more. "Well?"

Sybil took a deep breath. She'd done far braver things in life than strike a match and throw it into an oven, though it didn't feel that way to her now. Tremulously she walked over, turned the knob indicated by her husband, and struck the single match. Raising the tiny flame to her face, she felt bewitched by the flickering red, orange, and yellow, and the grey wisps of smoke that slowly ascended as it devoured the wooden stick.

"You're going to singe your fingers, love," he warned.

Branson received a deeply reproachful look for his trouble. Sybil took one last, fortifying breath, and lowered the match to the wavy bends of gas streaming into the air.

In a flash the gas was lit, the fire was on, and Sybil's face was glowing. She clapped her hands and uttered excited, slightly incomprehensible noises before slipping one hand into her husband's and resting the other on her still flat belly, envisioning a tiny human twirling beneath her palm.

"It's going to be all right, isn't it?" she said. Her eyes were shining, absorbed with her accomplishment; while Branson's eyes danced in the firelight, both of them transfixed on his wife's elated face.

"Aye. I think it will."

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><p><em>Thanks for reading!<em>


	5. Matthew and Mary: A Groom at Large

_The crack version of Mary and Matthew's wedding prep. Thanks to **3down1up** for looking it over! _

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><p><strong>A Groom at Large<strong>

"Ivory?" The spindle of elegant chemise was thrown back into the cowering maid's face. "I requested white, the purest of white!"

Mary deftly shooed the traumatized girl away. "Really, Matthew," she said. "I doubt anyone will notice the difference. It's only a trifle; just something to line the banisters in the foyer."

"I don't like the implications of not having white on your wedding day."

Mary's lips dangled precariously close to a frown. "What implications…?"

But Mary's question was left dangling as well as the two were then interrupted by a fond shout. "Matthew!" Isobel called. He turned in the intruder's direction and gave a frustrated sigh.

"Yes, mother? I hope this is urgent; I'm incredibly busy."

Isobel gave her son a fierce once over. Matthew did indeed look busy, arms full to the brim with various clipboards, a plethora of papers spilling out filled with incomprehensible lists, charts, and if she wasn't mistaken an intricate seating diagram.

"This won't take long. Our cousins from Newport have arrived and I thought we could pop over to the Grantham Arms and greet them."

Matthew guffawed. She wanted him to make a call? On visiting relatives from a mere 1000 leagues away?

"Rather a selfish suggestion, wouldn't you say mother? Mary and I are getting married in two days. There is much to do before then, and I'm sure cousin Henry will understand that."

Isobel's smile was tight and unrelenting. "Your zeal for perfection is well known, but I must say that you're quite outdoing yourself. A short, obliging visit to our relatives is hardly an imposition."

"You must understand, mother," he replied frostily, "I want this wedding to go off without a single hitch. Everything must be perfectly in order, down to the second, for Mary's special day."

His tone warmed at the mention of his future wife. The years of misunderstanding had melted away with the new fallen snow of that New Year's proposal, and all that remained was an overpowering desire for unity never again to be undone by remorse. For the emotive Mary and Matthew, all that was easily conveyed in a single glance as they beheld each other tenderly.

But sticking to schedule he promptly broke the trance-like gaze once his allotted ten seconds for mooning were over, and hurried from the room.

"I must be off!" he said in farewell. "This wedding won't organize itself!"

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><p>Matthew entered the parlor to see a room full of people lazing about. Sybil, now fit to burst, languished on a divan with a book in her hands, while Branson and Edith discussed meaningless details on automatic crankshaft starters. It was an appalling sight, and he nearly face-faulted at the sheer audacity. Didn't they know that <em>Mary's<em> _wedding_ was occurring in less than 72 hours?

"Sybil. Edith," he said tersely. "How are the dress fittings coming along?"

"Dress fitting?" Sybil asked, puzzled.

"Yes. The fitting. For your bridesmaid's dress."

"Oh, Matthew," she laughed. "I'm eight months pregnant! I'm not going to get it fitted. As long as it fits around my waist it will be passable."

"Perhaps 'passable' was a standard you were willing to accept on _your_ wedding day, but we are speaking of the future Countess of Grantham!"

Sybil blinked once, and went back to her book. Matthew pounced upon his next victim.

"Edith? The gifts?"

"What about them?" she asked. "They're in the library."

"And do you have them organized in alphabetical order by the giver's last name, cross referenced by what room in the house they're to be sent to?"

"I…. no?"

Matthew's eyebrows narrowed menacingly.

"Then I suppose you have some work to do?"

"I…suppose I do?"

Edith rose on wobbly legs and mindlessly wandered to the door, Matthew's glower following her out till it shut with an audible click. Matthew turned to face the last object of his fury.

"Branson, Mr. Branson, Tom, whatever I'm to call you now, that really isn't important – what is important is that Mary declares the flowers at your wedding were lovely and I simply must know – were they carnations? Daffodils? Lilies? Roses?" He gestured wildly. "What arrangement did you use? Horizontal? Vertical? Crescent? Minimal?"

For whole seconds Branson stared blankly at Matthew's eyes devouring his face.

"They were pink."

Matthew threw up his hands and stormed away. Useless! They were all useless!

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><p>Mary and Isobel murmured to each other on the way to the drawing room where a lavish tea had been laid. They entered to see Cora and Violet battling over a pastry tray, while Carson stalked unobtrusively near the sideboard.<p>

"Mary, darling," Cora greeted with a warm smile. "And how do you do, Cousin Isobel?"

"Very well," Isobel replied as Carson handed her a cup of tea. "Although I'm somewhat worried over Matthew. He's become rather determined in his wedding arrangements."

"He only wants the day to be as special as it ought to be." Cora smiled towards her daughter stuffing a scone in her mouth, resplendent in her happiness. "We all do."

"Yes, I know," Mary said after a bracing gulp. "But he doesn't seem to realize that we _pay_ people to do the menial things. He seems bent on carrying out every task single handedly."

"It's what I like to call micro-managing," Isobel supplied.

"I'm sure you know exactly what to call it," Violet said with an innocent sip. "Such a cumbersome attitude, throwing every finger into the pie. I can't imagine _where_ he gets it from."

"His father, most likely," Isobel continued blithely. "He refused to sleep for the entire day and a half leading up to our wedding. I've never experienced a more regimented day in my life."

* * *

><p>After the disappointing skirmish in the parlor, Matthew stomped out back to inspect the gazebo, and saw Robert strolling across the lawn with a buoyant Isis in tow.<p>

"Matthew!" Robert called out affectionately. "What brings you out here?"

"Oh, nothing." He stopped, and with both forefingers and thumbs formed an impromptu rectangular frame through which he viewed the offending object. "But I'm still not certain about the positioning."

"What do you mean?"

"I have it planned…" He retrieved the bundle of clipboards from under his arm, shuffling aside several dozen sheets of paper on the third board from the stack, and brandished a magnificent flow chart. "Ah, here it is! At dusk Mary and I are to stand here during the toasts, and observe the sunset for the first time as man and wife, after which we shall depart for the wedding night."

"That's rather…romantic, I must say," Robert said, half his heart swelling with the thought of this man as his son-in-law, the other half smoldering with any reference to one of his daughters and "wedding night".

Matthew shook his head. "Yes, but according to the meteorological data for Yorkshire in late spring, and the way the gazebo is now positioned…" Matthew consulted the chart once more. "Yes, I'm almost certain! The sun will be directly in Mary's eyes for at least five minutes."

Robert laughed. "Mary may be a lady but she's not made of glass. I'm sure she can put up with five minutes discomfort."

Matthew pursed his lips, dispelling his next words in a taut, vengeful stream.

"It's her wedding day. She shouldn't have to put up with anything." His face hardened. "Now are you going to help me move this gazebo or aren't you?"

* * *

><p>Robert entered the drawing room where he was surprised to see a small party had convened.<p>

"Robert!" Violet uttered, aghast. "What's happened to you?"

Seven pairs of eyes fixed on his sweat-drenched face and the embarrassingly wet patches beneath his pits that would no doubt decimate Barrow's supply of cleaning powders.

"Oh, nothing to faint over, Mama. Merely helping Matthew move the gazebo a few inches to the left."

"The gazebo?" Mary frowned. "Whatever for?"

Robert sighed. "Something about not wanting the sun to get in your eyes." He accepted Carson's proffered napkin and began mopping as Cora reached out a solicitous hand in his direction.

"You poor dear," she said. "Matthew's been on something of a rampage. We've actually all been discussing it."

Isobel was the first to pipe up. "He refused to visit his cousin, come all the way from America for the wedding."

Violet chuckled. "Well, I daresay there are worse things than begging off a visit with an American!"

"But Henry once pulled Matthew out of a burning building!"

"Well, I daresay –" Violet paused. "No, no. That is rather heartless," she conceded.

"There's more," Sybil put in testily. "He demanded I get my dress fitted." She stuck out her belly, a reminder to all and sundry the unpardonable crime of inconveniencing a pregnant woman. "A dress fitted over this? I suppose next he'll want me to strap on a corset as well!" she finished with feminist fervor.

Edith look confused. "And I'm _still_ not sure what he wants me to do with the wedding gifts!"

The discussion devolved into a cacophony of complaints, each voice clamoring for priority, before a loud rapping of a cane desisted the commotion.

"Then it's decided!" Violet singly and loudly decided. "Matthew's gone too far – something must be done!"

* * *

><p>Mrs. Patmore ground her teeth for perhaps the tenth time. "Describe to me once more, if you don't mind, exactly what it is you want done with the cake?"<p>

Matthew pointed avidly to the magazine splayed out in his hand. "White roses adorned with pearl drops. _That_ is the design that was originally commissioned and _that_ is the design that I intend to be on the cake!"

"The cake's been finished for three days, Mr. Crawley. We made it to your specific instructions."

"The decorations were to be roses, Mrs. Patmore, _not _rosettes. How many times do I have to –"

"Mr. Crawley?" Carson interrupted.

"Not now, Carson," Matthew growled over his shoulder. "Can't you see that I –"

"Forgive me, but it's Lady Mary. She must speak with you urgently – she says it concerns a matter the most dire." He paused and lowered his voice. "Something about the canapés…?"

"What?" Matthew's face bled to a petrifying white. "Don't tell me they've run out of vol-au-vent!"

His heart beat rapidly as he raced up the stairs. Flinging open the door, he was taken aback to see not his Mary floundering over the canapé catastrophe, but rather each of his relations standing in a foreboding semi circle, a single chair set determinedly in the center.

"Have a seat, Matthew," his mother commanded.

"What is this?" Matthew asked, dazed. "Have the canapés been sorted? What's going on here?"

"I'm sorry Matthew, but it had to be done!" Mary cried.

Matthew still appeared perplexed. "It's an intervention," Sybil calmly explained.

"I'm still not sure –" Matthew quavered, staggering into the indicated hot seat.

"It's a medical term," Isobel clipped with clinical precision. "You see, when a man begins to show signs of addiction –"

"But I'm not addicted to anything!" Matthew protested.

"Perhaps not," Violet said. "But your wedding scheming has taken control of your life – and even more importantly – this house! You're behavior has been insupportable, nagging away at the family and pestering the servants. It must stop Matthew, at _once_!" she pronounced, the room slightly jumping with the loud crack that accompanied her final word on the matter.

Matthew was stunned. How could he explain the mad urgings that compelled him? After eight agonizing years – the love, the separation, the torment; the horrors of war when he was chest deep in mud and death, and her face the one constant beacon in a well of darkness. And in two days they were to wed, he and his Mary, a once irretrievable dream now at long last realized.

And everything had. To be. _Perfect_.

"But don't you see?" Matthew cried. "Everything _must_ be perfect!" He turned to Mary, beseeching. "It's our wedding day, Mary." He paused briefly, swallowing down emotion. "Our _wedding_."

"Oh, Matthew. The wedding will be splendid, I'm sure, thanks to your efforts and those of everyone here. But what I'm most anticipating is the marriage, of our life afterwards."

"When we'll be together," Matthew said, somewhat breathless at the thought.

Mary smiled.

"Yes."

"Every day."

She laughed.

"Yes, every day. And our wedding day, though perhaps a bit more special than the some of the rest, will be just one of many in our new life together."

This happy logic seemed to pacify Matthew. Tension visibly released from his shoulders, and a bit of that maniacal gleam seemed to vanish from his eyes.

Satisfied with the outcome, everyone trailed out of the room, save for Branson, who up to that point had not uttered a single word, and who was now sat as still as a potato on the sofa, deep in thought. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide and enlightened.

"Chrysanthemums!"

END

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><p><em>Any inaccuracies regarding 1920's era wedding flowers, gazebos, or hors d'oevures were entirely intentional and therefore should not be mentioned.<em>

_Thanks for indulging this silliness with an audience!  
><em>


	6. Sybil and Branson: Lamplight

_Just some speculation on a hinted at scene from the press tour. Thanks to **3down1up **for looking it over!  
><em>

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><p><strong>Lamplight<strong>

The mirror is most forgiving at night. They keep only one lamp on, and that on the other side of the room, far outside the circumference of its revealing rays, where the shadows do much to ameliorate her coarsening features and the imperfections no longer masked by veils of ointments and jewels.

Sybil stands as a recluse in the dim corner. Hands clasped at the edges of her nightdress, she slowly joins them together at the small of her back, and looks abstractedly at the reflected image of loose fabric growing taut over the telltale swell. Watching oneself change by the hour is largely unremarkable, but to leap straight from a lithe virgin to a swollen harbinger of new life will no doubt cause a stir to those now absent from her everyday life, and she wonders what they will make of her.

Whatever their presuppositions, whatever they _might_ think, they are bound to think _something_, she knows, at that first, crucial sighting, and she hopes those initial thoughts will remain charitably to themselves.

She lets the fabric relax as she moves on to other matters. Is that small scratch across her leg healing up right? Does she need a haircut? She leans forwards and backwards, extending limbs and examining the small details of her face and body. For so many years she tracked her appearance like an astronomer the stars, instructed enough times to utterly convince her that such strict maintenance was necessary so as not to lose her sparkle. Although now superfluous, she finds she cannot break the ritual, even as the brightness condenses to something foreign, something altogether more basic and primal. She no longer possesses that effervescent sheen of privilege, that blinding beauty that she imagines her sisters must still exhibit; but for all that is different, she cannot think her altered form any less beautiful.

She strings her hair up into a makeshift bun, and lets it fall placidly back down. "My hair's getting rather long. What do you think?" she asks.

A voice drifts over from the lighted side of the room.

"I think you spend too much time in front of that thing."

She frowns. She'd like to be cross, but he's probably right. "Well, old habits, and all that," she weakly offers as she emerges from the gloom and slides under the brightly lit covers of their bed. Her knees draw up, impeded halfway to her chin, as she fantasizes.

"I might get it all cut off like Mrs. Finnigan. Never fuss with it again."

"If you like."

She frowns again, and this time out of due irritation. He's not ignoring her, per se, but he hasn't so much as looked at her all night. An armada of soldiers has recently invaded, spreading the brave, green lands with angry blacks and browns, and striking fear into the heart of the capital. Of late he has eyes only for the headlines, which have become morbidly repetitive, telling the same, sad story over and over again – different names and different places – but all with the same bloody ending. Her husband could never get enough of it even on a happy news day, and has grown close to obsessed with the persecution lining the front pages.

She regroups, and decides to try a different tack, one which she knows from experience has a perfect success rate.

"Tom," she says with purposeful sobriety. "There's something you should know." The paper is immediately discarded, senses on high alert. He hates that phrase, that tone, the way she chooses to preface disaster instead of plunging straight in. "You don't have to look that way – I'm not running back to Downton with all your money." His eyes move up in that exasperated way, but he's smiling as she continues. "I've gotten a letter this morning. From Mary." She leans onto her side and struggles briefly to retrieve a book on the night table. Inside is tucked a leaf of paper traced with the exquisite hand of a Lady, and which she hands to him without a word.

Most of the apprehension on his face has already been undone, and is vanquished completely by the time his eyes read through the closing sentence.

"She wants you to come to the wedding." He smiles. "That's good!"

"She wants _us_ to come to the wedding," she corrects.

He shrugs. "Then we'll go."

Sybil is struck with how simple he makes it sound. No sinking dread or loud resolve; no endless meditations in front of the mirror. But then he's always been rather laconic in his decision making, racing ahead with his convictions while the details are left behind to sort themselves out. As far as she knows he never worries over anything, assuming the future will simply arrange itself.

She looks away, towards the darkened corner she has just quitted.

"I'm not sure it would be a good idea."

"Why would you think that? I thought you were hoping they'd invite you back within the year, and now they have," he reasons.

_Yes, but that was before my parents chose to dishonor me with their absence. Before father chose to send me vicarious love from my mother, rather than from himself_. She rubs her belly. _Before _this.

The words wrestle with her throat, and she feels she cannot say so, not out loud, not even to him. As usual, she settles on a compromise.

"_They_ haven't invited me," she says vaguely and almost bitterly. "Mary has."

"If you're worried about how your family will act, then just say so." He pauses. "Unless it's _me_ you're worried about."

_It's both of you._

"I don't like to see the people I care about fighting," she says into her lap.

"I'm not going to fight with them. And I doubt they'll want to fight with me." She gives him a piercing, narrow-eyed look, and he holds out his hands. "We're already married; there's nothing any of us can do anymore but try and get along."

"You don't know that. I think there's very much they can try to do, and will do, once we're over there. And I don't need to tell you that you'll have no problem giving it straight back."

"I already told you I'm not going to fight with them. Do you think I don't mean it?"

"No. I think you always mean exactly what you say. But you're not always known for doing what you mean, or what you say."

He attempts not to look overly sheepish, but it's impossible for him to refute the bald-faced facts. Instead he tries a different route. "Do you _want_ to see Mary and Matthew get married?"

"Of course I do! After all this time – I'm not sure I'll even believe it unless I see it for myself." It is that priceless thought – her elder, forlorn sister smiling like she used to once upon a time – that restores Sybil's good humor. "When we were younger, Mary and Edith used to talk about their weddings – before Patrick, you see – and I was really too young to understand any of it, but I'd go along and help them pick out flowers and dresses, and then they'd fight over whose bridesmaid I'd get to be."

She smiles dreamily, and his mind is made up.

"Then we'll go," he reaffirms. "We've got to have a first visit sometime, unless you want to avoid Downton forever. And it may as well be when everyone's in a good mood."

She sighs, and stretches out her legs underneath the sheets. "I suppose you're right." She looks towards the pitch-black window where not a single sound is stirring. "And it might be good to be away for a time," she adds pensively.

"It might be."

"Maybe when we get back, things will have calmed down a bit."

"Maybe." Even the allusion is enough to conjure up a foreign anxiety. He never had much need for worrying before, but he's learning. And quickly.

She settles down onto her side and rests her head upon his shoulder, while he uses his free arm to finish reading the paper over her hair. The minutes tick down, and his vision begins to cloud. He sees his darling Sybil blur together with the terrifying words, forewarning a time when she, he, their family will become one of them, another sad story to grace the headlines.

After a time she starts to yawn, and he gratefully puts the paper down for a final time. A lump of hair is tickling his shoulder and he moves it aside.

"I think you should get your hair cut," he says.

"You do?" she asks sleepily.

"Why not? It's what all the posh people are doing."

"I'm not posh," she protests with a poke to his ribs.

"You'll always be my posh girl," he says with adoration. "And besides, we may as well give your family something to talk about when we come visit."

She laughs as he reaches over. The single lamp turns off, and the room is bathed in darkness.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading :)<em>


	7. Tom and Matthew: A Lawyer's Touch

_Inspired by a post on tumblr. OOCness, ahoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>A Lawyers Touch<strong>

Every second that ticked from the mantle only served to wind him up further. The minutes stretched by and Branson could feel the cord growing tighter and tighter – the proverbial noose around his neck – and he began to loosen his tie. He was upstairs in Sybil's old bedroom – hiding, he could admit to himself, even if he never would to anyone else. The entire house seemed riddled with tiger traps, with no area safe for him to venture forth. Upstairs the air was terse and constrained, familiar and unfamiliar sets of haughty eyes just waiting for a single misstep. Downstairs the eyes were no less judgmental, but infinitely more painful as they were owned by those he once counted as friends.

But there were no more friends for him left in this house, save for Sybil. His sweet wife was the sum total of his allies, the only one who would defend him from the tyranny of oppression, the –

"Tom! Oh, there you are! Sybil sent me to find you, and –"

Matthew stopped abruptly. A zombie-like pair of eyes greeted him, and it was clear Tom Branson was in no mood for socializing. The desperate man was sitting like a broken down and badly dressed mannequin in the room's large armchair, a wrinkled and haggard mess.

Matthew took in his rumpled form, and pitied him.

"You know," he began soothingly, "I was just like you, once."

Sleep deprived, and still stinging with the few microscopic tears that no amount of Sybil's teasing would ever bring him to admit having shed, Branson's rather manic eyes narrowed. He'd always liked Mr. Matthew. He hoped that wouldn't have to change in the next few seconds.

"What do you mean 'just like me'?" Branson asked testily. "An Irishman? A chauffeur?"

Matthew's cheeks plumped into a smirk. "An _outsider_." All loneliness and social injustice forgotten, Branson's mouth hung open in confusion as Matthew walked briskly forward, appraising his future brother-in-law with a piercing stare. "And what's more – I looked it!"

If Branson was confused before he was gob smacked now.

"I'm not sure I understand –" he sputtered.

"I came here eight years ago," Matthew interposed, eyes glazed as he reminisced upon those dark, unfashionable days, "merely a regular Manchester solicitor. I used to think I could throw on any old suit, give myself a quick brush down, and as long as my tie wasn't askew could consider myself presentable." He burst out with a chuckle at his past self's ridiculous notions. "And the cake crumbs! I won't horrify you with details, but Molseley never let me hear the end of it."

During this baffling speech, Matthew found it incumbent to begin rummaging through Branson's still unpacked trunk, tossing about ill-fitting suits, socks in need of immediate darning, and horribly mismatched ties into what grew to be an alarmingly high pile.

Branson stared, shocked and nonplussed. "Those are my clothes, Matthew!" he exclaimed when he found his voice.

"Yes, and I'm putting them _exactly_ where they belong!" The last was said with an audible plop as an armful of shoddily made apparel was spilled to overflowing into the waste bin. "Really, Branson," Matthew said, holding up a jacket of questionable origins. "What _is_ this coat – a 40 inch large? It must positively _swim_ on you!"

By now Branson was smoldering. "It was on _sale_!" he clipped.

Matthew tsked. "Believe me, Tom - if there's anything estate planning has taught me it's that it's not always about the price of the thing that matters. Quality must also be factored in. I doubt this old thing could survive even _one_ of Sybil's launderings."

Silence would have to do for concurrence, for Branson would never say a word against his dear wife's home making skills, however appalling they happened to be.

Branson watched in mute outrage as Matthew continued to exploit the last of his clothing. He closed his eyes and took several meaningful, if not quite calming, breaths, but snapped them open forthwith when he felt fingers tickling the top of his head.

"Matthew, what – what are you doing to my hair?"

"Just trying to find your natural part line. Do you even _own_ a comb?" he repined.

"What kind of a question is that?" Branson said, batting the errant hand away. "I was in service; of course I know how to groom myself. But I'm not a chauffeur anymore and I don't have the time to gussy myself up for no reason!"

"Well. I know things are _difficult_ in Ireland but that's no excuse to let things slip _this_ far!"

"And why not?" Branson snorted. "What do I need to look like a toff for?"

Matthew sighed. "You still don't get it, do you?" He came around to face Branson's curious eyebrows. "Listen to me, Tom: if you ever want to be accepted by this family–" Matthew placed a finger over Branson's lips already quivering with a protest. "If you ever want to be accepted by this family – and I know you do, at least for Sybil and the baby's sake – you're going to have to learn to be…adaptable."

Branson looked unsure. "Adaptable?"

"Like a chameleon! You'll never be one of them. But you can at least _look_ like one of them. And that on its own will do a fair amount towards the family forgetting you used to drive them to Ripon on command."

Branson sighed. "All right, then. What is it you want to do?"

"It's rather brilliant, actually – something I picked up from Molesly." From confusion to anger to resignation – the next feeling to overtake Branson was a strange type of fear as he gazed into Matthew's shining and devious eyes:

"Tell me, Tom, have you ever heard of a 'make over'?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>24 hours later<em>**

"Matthew!" Sybil gasped, gazing at the magnificent transformation. "However did you manage it?"

He was held captive on the sofa, walled in by four bodies that had somehow forgotten, in their sheer wonder, the importance of personal boundaries. If Branson had been mortified before, he was in complete meltdown mode now, yearning to dissolve into an inconspicuous puddle, longing to be gobbled up by the ornate area rug, begging for anyone with a shred of mercy to murder him right then and here.

After a few more highly uncomfortable prods Branson could stand it no more.

"Could you all please stop touching me?" he shouted.

"But he does look rather smart," Mary said, ignoring that insignificant voice huffing from beneath her palm. She was duly impressed with how fine a figure her sloppy brother now cut, all tailored trousers and fetching waistcoats, and beamed at her fiancé. "Is there anything you can't do?"

Matthew smirked. "After this miraculous feat, I imagine not."

Edith was mesmerized by the precision of Branson's part line.

"Whoever knew that lawyers could possess such good taste?" she almost squealed, and turned to Matthew beseechingly. "You'll have to give me some tips, once we're truly brother and sister."

And though in his mind Matthew's visceral thought was: _I thought she'd never ask_, aloud he responded more graciously with, "Of course, Edith. Anytime."

It was at this moment that Robert brushed into the room in search of his future heir.

"Matthew!" he boomed. "I was wondering if you could go over these accounts with me and –" He halted and peered quizzically at the stranger sitting on the sofa. "Why, hello, there chap! I'm afraid we've not been introduced. Are you a friend of Matthew?"

Branson ground his teeth. "It's me, your Lordship." Lord Grantham stared blankly.

"Your son-in-law."

_An Irishman?_

"Tom Branson."

_I didn't think Matthew knew any Irishmen…_.

"Sybil's husband."

_I hope that _Branson_ hasn't been influencing him…_

"Your former chauffeur."

It was the word "chauffeur" that toggled on the light switch. "Branson?" he sputtered. "Impossible!"

"No, he's right Papa," Sybil said. "It really is him! Matthew dressed him up a bit, you see."

Lord Grantham joined the circle of bodies to investigate the matter. After a time, he appeared satisfied that this rather dapper young man was indeed his formerly bedraggled son-in-law, and magnanimously decided that if he could clean up this nicely, then perhaps all was not lost after all.

Mary turned to conduct a brief aside with her fiancé.

"So aside from solving all of Downton's financial problems, you've also proved you can manage its delicate familial relations." She smiled coyly. "Tell me, darling – just how do you do it?"

"What can I say, my love?" Matthew said, pulling her into an embrace. "Sometimes all it takes is a lawyer's touch!"

END

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><p><em>Thanks for readingputting up with my nonsense!_


	8. Cora and O'Brien: Afterbirth

_This particular chapter is r_a_ted T._**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Afterbirth<strong>

A Lady's maid is not a job for the squeamish.

Sarah knew herself to have a stomach wrought of iron. Her youth was spent in full view of the nastier side of human behavior, and when it came time to go into service she had no problems transitioning to changing another woman's bloody linen every month.

But _this_.

Only Doctor Clarkson's late arrival, two able nurses in tow, had dislodged her from the horror-struck room and her Lady's prostrate body, bloody footprints tracking a guilty path all the way up to the attics.

Secured in her room, she couldn't get her sticky frock off fast enough. Old habits die hard, even under crisis, and morbidly she examined the stained fabric – a fitting choice – for after a few good washings the blood would never show against such dark material. Her hands were caked with red, the washbasin rimmed with a filmy pink. Motes of gore bespeckled her hair, and Sarah swallowed hard as she shook them out, subduing the urge to retch.

She lay down, but dared not close her eyes. Too many images much less benign than the water-stained ceiling were bound to surface.

She had seen him – they both had – lying limp and unmoving in a pool of blood next to a stray bar of soap. At the time her Ladyship had been in too much agony to properly despair. All that would come later, and Sarah knew she would have a first row seat to the show.

Lord Grantham, the girls, and the Dowager had all come and gone by the time Sarah was summoned. She trudged downstairs, boldly and reluctantly.

Her hand trembled on the doorknob.

The upstairs doors never creaked; through an eye-width's crack Sarah was able to sneak a secret viewing of her pallid Lady lying like a felled doe on the mountainous bed.

Lady Grantham's head turned towards her. Sarah entered, but tarried by the door. When one, listless arm rose in a motion to beckon, she flew to her side.

Sarah had always believed that emotion was not her forte. She could not recognize her own voice as it poured out, thick and viscous, seeming to her ears almost decadent.

"Your Ladyship!" She would overstep her bounds, at least on this day, and clutch her Ladyship's hand. "What did the doctor tell you? Are you in any danger?"

"Please don't worry, O'Brien. Doctor Clarkson has assured me that I should be fine." She smiled. "Thanks to you."

"No, I –!" O'Brien stopped, and swallowed hard. "Forgive me, my lady. If I'd only checked properly –"

"Stop it at once, O'Brien! I won't hear another word." Lady Grantham did appear vexed at the notion, but calmed down soon after. "How could you have known?" Lady Grantham choked. "I won't have you blaming yourself for this. I'm…. I'm not young anymore, am I?" She shook her head. "I never expected another pregnancy. It might…it's _possible_ that this would have happened anyway."

Sarah could not reply. She had no experience in these sorts of matters. By the time she had arrived at Downton all of that was over, Sybil already six and growing, her Lady's womb staying staunchly empty. Sarah recalled the way Lady Grantham used to occasionally rub her flat belly and sigh into the vanity mirror.

_Some children are never meant to be._

"You need rest, my lady."

"Yes." She closed her eyes and visibly relaxed into the layers of down. "Yes I think you're right."

Sarah wiped her face with a cloth dampened in the water basin by the bed. She took the pillows in her hands and fluffed and fluffed till Lady Grantham bid her to stop. Her ladyship's blanket – was it too thick, too thin? Did she require another? What about a glass of water, something to eat? Her Ladyship's braid was too loose – no, I cannot leave till it is combed and straightened, till you are perfectly comfortable, till you are healthy and whole and happy again.

Years and years Sarah had felt like an empty vase set on the side table. Under the eyes of her mistress – an object desired for its usefulness, admired for its skill, even properly chastised as a child, when the need arose.

And what was her Lady? Nothing but a mannequin to be dressed, gussied, flattered, coddled – and ultimately resented.

But the woman – the _person_, whose brow she stroked though no lingering strands of hair remained, was another creature to her now. Cora Crawley had long been in her mind; now she was burrowed deep into her heart.

"If there's anything you need my lady, anything at all –"

"No, I should be all right, but…."

"Yes, my lady?"

Cora swallowed, and squeezed her maid's hand.

"Could you stay with me, O'Brien?"

Sarah sat down, and watched over her Ladyship until Cora's eyes sunk down and her breathing came slow and steady.

"Always, my lady."

* * *

><p><em>I've always thought Cora and O<em>_'Brien had a very complex relationship, especially post - soapgate, and this fic sort of scratches the surface of that.  
><em>

_Thanks for reading :)  
><em>


	9. Tom and Matt: Never had a Friend Like Me

_Series 3 spec based on some of the spoilers. This is something of a low budget fic but I was determined to finish this before the first ep of S3. It's very late so feel free to let me know some of the errors this thing is sure to be riddled with! I'm much too tired for a proper edit. Happy Downton Day!_

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><p><strong>Never Had a Friend Like Me<strong>

Mary watched in amusement as a hastily crumpled piece of paper bounced off the tip of her shoe. It sailed lazily off the black leather tip, plopped onto the green carpet, and rolled a few extra inches before coming to an underwhelming halt. She looked up, and had to hold back a laugh as a benign glower – "Matthew's scowl," she had recently dubbed it – made an unexpected appearance.

"And what did that poor piece of paper do to deserve such treatment?" she asked with an arch smile.

"Oh, nothing," Matthew mumbled. "Only James has written to say he couldn't make the trip up for the wedding."

"James...?"

"James Templesmith. A friend from my old practice in Manchester." Matthew pursed his lips and looked somewhat flustered, much to Mary's curiosity. "You see, I was hoping he'd…."

"What?" she demanded. Matthew puffed out a breath.

"Oh, nevermind!"

"No, tell me Matthew. What is it?"

The confession came out in an embarrassed rush:

"Iwashopinghe'dagreetobemybestman!"

Mary stood silently by, separating the words till an intelligible sentence formed in her mind, then raised both eyebrows in her version of surprise.

"You mean to say that you haven't chosen a best man yet?" Her eyebrows shifted downwards, hitting that distinctive angle which designated concern. "Matthew, the wedding's only a few days away –"

"I know, Mary. I _know_." He sighed, clenching his fists to keep his hands from raking through his hair.

"Well," Mary said in soothing tones, "I'm sure one of your other friends making the trip will happily step in."

Matthew laughed nervously. "Yes, yes I...I'm sure one of them will," he said, offering up a brave smile.

Their conversation was cut off as Lady Grantham stepped into the drawing room to discuss with Mary the alterations for the veil, which allowed Matthew a private moment to ruminate.

_One of my 'other friends,_' he sadly mused. _Oh, my darling Mary. How little you know…_

* * *

><p><em>Manchester - 1908<em>

– _Sorry, chap! But I've just gotten word that Maud won't have me gone for such a long period of time – says the children are getting to be quite unmanageable. All the same, hope you have a splendid day, and my best wishes, etc,_

_Sincerely,_

_John Campbell –_

_Matthew set down the letter onto the pile. It looked as though not a single one of his "good friends" from his university days could make the arduous journey to Manchester for what he hoped to be his grand birthday bash. _

_The special day came and went like any other, and that evening he sat with his mother at the dining table, three tiers of his favorite cake the only consolation to a rather lonely and disappointing day._

_But his birthdays hadn't always been such a bore. When Matthew was a boy his father used to take him out to watch a cricket or football match. They'd wear matching scarves with the colors of their favorite teams and engorge themselves on sweets and laughter. If he thought very hard Matthew could nearly replicate the deep, burly rumble in his mind, or feel that tickling sensation on his chin – a much loved consequence of his father's prickly beard and penchant for bear hugs._

_He'd died suddenly, when Matthew was very young, leaving him a bereft, scared, and quiet boy who never seemed to fit the mold of a proper rambunctious lad. The other boys duly ignored him, which Matthew decided was quite all right by him, assuring himself constantly that he preferred the staid, comforting company of his mother anyway._

"_Happy Birthday, Matthew!" that faithful mother beamed, her face aglow with pride. Matthew had had a rather successful year at his practice, and the mountain of cake and buttercream frosting was a rare and welcome treat – though it was much too large for only two._

"_Thank you, mother," Matthew said with a weak smile._

* * *

><p>Matthew wandered the grounds. Everything was white and sparkly, adorned with beautiful flowers whose names he could not and never would be able to place.<p>

Lovely, lavish; each detail perfected with that undoubtedly aristocratic touch; his wedding would be an event for the county – nay, for the whole of England – to remember: the heir to the Earl of Grantham wedding that very Earl's oldest daughter. It was like something out of a fairy tale, or perhaps a very predictable novel.

"Matthew!" Lord Grantham bellowed grandiosely from the entryway steps. Matthew made his way over to his future father-in-law, dodging the random people flittering up and down carrying various sized boxes. Low to the ground between them Isis' tail wagged this way and that, clearly excited over the pandemonium going on around her.

They struck up a hearty and congenial conversation. At length Lord Grantham, in his oblivious way, asked, "And is that James fellow going to be your best man?"

"No." Matthew frowned. "It seems he won't be able to make it to the wedding after all."

"A bit of rum luck, I must say." He smiled. "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of others coming – I should know; I've seen the guest list – who would be delighted to take his place. Pick another friend – perhaps one of your colleagues from the practice in Ripon."

Matthew smiled tightly. "Yes, perhaps."

* * *

><p><em>Ripon - 1914<em>

"_Everyone finished up for the day?"_

_Matthew heard the chatter from behind him as he bent over to retrieve a dropped pencil. A few of the paralegals were packing up their belongings, evidently on their way home._

"_It's been a long week – anyone else like to drop by the pub?"_

"_Lucinda will throttle me – but why not? Haven't been out to the pub all month!"_

"_You can count me in as well!"_

"_And me!"_

_Matthew smiled. None of his cousins would like it, but then they weren't exactly thrilled with his stance on gainful employment either. No need to stop disappointing them now. He made his presence known by righting himself, all thoughts of errant pencils forgotten, and turned around._

"_Are you all going out to the pub?" he asked, flashing his friendliest smile._

_Carter's eyes grew evasive._

"_Ah…. no, I don't think so." He forced a laugh. "It _is_ election night after all…. probably best to go straight home, wouldn't you say George?" _

"_Er…yes. I think I'll just head out and listen to the counting of the votes, then make my way home."_

"_And Lucinda insisted that I should be home in time for the roast," chimed in Stevens._

_His co-workers studiously examined their shoes, the light fixtures, the dusty windowsills – anything and everything that was not Matthew Crawley._

_Matthew laughed nervously. "Right, then. Well. I'll see you all tomorrow…?"_

"_Yes, of course," Carter said in a rush. "Good night, Matthew." They left hurriedly, leaving Matthew behind to go back into his office, slowly gather his belongings, and trudge silently outside._

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, you don't have one?"<p>

"I don't have one," Matthew heard an Irish lilt reply just as he entered the drawing room.

"How can you not have a single black tuxedo? Not a shred of proper dinner attire?" The affront this caused the Dowager caused her tone to climb a few notches higher. "Exactly what kind of world are you living in over there? Are there legions of Huns prowling the streets that I should know about?"

Matthew wisely stayed silent, and moved to sit down beside Mary, who exchanged with him one of her Meaningful Looks.

_Oh, Granny!_

Matthew's eyebrow's danced.

_Some might say the same about you._

Mary parried with an eyebrow encore of her own.

_Careful. I'll be your bride in a few days and will have _quite_ the bargaining power._

Matthew was just about to retort with a "saucy minx" waggle when he was distracted by a tired voice on the sofa opposite.

"Our lives are very different in Ireland, Granny. We don't change for dinner," Sybil sighed.

The room was grave for a moment as everyone absorbed the offensive information.

"Well." The Dowager's fan cracked open. "Now I've heard everything!"

"It's unacceptable, really," Robert agreed. "Here at Downton we _change_ for dinner, and if you wish to dine with us you will have to do the same."

"Robert, please," Cora said, her tight smile breaching the outer limits of her face. "I'm sure we can survive a few family dinners with Sybil and Tom, even if they aren't dressed as we'd like them."

"I won't have it," Robert boomed, literally putting his foot down. "If they want to stay here they need to learn to conform to our way of doing things. This isn't _Dublin_!"

The air swarmed with tension, and Matthew noticed the visibly stiff and uncomfortable former chauffeur sitting beside Sybil and clutching each other's hands in a show of solidarity. _Branson_… Matthew idly thought, though he was determined to call him Tom now, especially after the earful he got from his mother that morning.

Matthew felt rather bad for the chap, a veritable fish out of water. The family certainly wasn't making anything easier for him, and Matthew – well, he knew a little bit about not fitting in….

* * *

><p><em>The Somme – 1916<em>

"_Ho, ho, ho!" _

"_Ha-HA!"_

"_Her, her, her!"_

_The laughter ringed about the small circle of officers. A good joke all around, Matthew could see, and he edged closer, hoping to be informed of the punch line._

"_Haha, yes, what's all this about?" he asked congenially from the outer rim._

"_Hmmmm?" Captain Connelly turned slightly around, just then noticing Matthew's presence. His jovial features immediately relaxed to something more neutral. "Oh, hello there, Crawley. Nothing famous, just a letter that Major Bowler got from his wife."_

"_Something funny, I take it?"_

"_Oh, no, nothing of the sort. Nothing but those boring details from home – you know…."_

"_Yes, of course. Calls and charities and new housemaids."_

"_Exactly!" _

_Captain Connelly turned around, an effective closure to their short conversation. As Matthew walked slowly back to his company he could hear them from behind:_

"_You didn't tell him, did you?"_

"_Crawley? Of course not! He's not the bawdy sort. I once saw him blush at the mere notion of knickers."_

_So that was it. Matthew sighed. Army officers were another breed of men altogether, he'd come to find, and he certainly was not one of them._

* * *

><p>"You won't be happy with anyone else while Lady Mary walks the earth."<p>

Matthew stared hard at the other man. He took a bracing sip from the tumbler, blue eye piercing into the earnest face in front of him. The words had hit him as a sharpened arrow. They sunk deep within, burrowing down through flesh and bone till the poisoned tip swam through his veins with a slight tingle.

But perhaps that was just the brandy.

"Did you just come up with that?"

Branson started. "What?"

"Well it's all very poetic for something so spur of the moment, and – forgive me – sounds rather rehearsed." He cocked his head and gave Branson a coy smile. "Have you been thinking about that line for awhile?"

Branson laughed a little too sheepishly. "I have tried it a few times in the past. It never seemed to work very well for me, but I thought it might be useful to you."

Matthew chuckled. "Nothing new under the sun, I suppose. But you know, Tom, even if it is a recycled line – I do think you're right."

Mathew put down his glass of brandy and rose from the chair. "I think I'll go see Mary now and try to patch things up."

Branson shook his head. "I think she's already gone up to bed."

"I won't let that stop me," Matthew said boldly. "I've learned that there are some things more important than propriety, wouldn't you say?"

Branson smiled. "I would, Mr. Crawley."

"Please, Tom. Call me _Matthew_."

* * *

><p>The morning before the wedding Matthew awoke with a feeling of butterflies and daffodils. Despite the downpour of emotions the day before, things with Mary had blossomed into something beautiful, to say the least: His lips perched softly against hers, her hair unwound from the tight coiffures of daylight, a slip of a nightgown draped over her pale shoulder….<p>

Yes, he was looking forward to _many_ things, indeed.

And aside from the pleasant turning over of last nights' memories, the new day had also given Matthew a terribly bright idea. Once dressed and fed, he discussed it with Mary:

"And who better than family?" Matthew said excitedly. "My own future wife's sister's husband!"

Mary frowned. "I certainly don't…. disapprove. But you'll have quite a time convincing Papa."

"It's not _his_ wedding."

"But it _is_ his money."

"There are ways around that," Matthew said with a flippant wave. "I'll simply arrange everything before hand and tell him afterwards."

"You mean when it's far too late to alter it?"

"Exactly!"

* * *

><p>Branson was usually a trusting man, but he still peered at Matthew with a narrow gaze, perfectly ready to punch or pontificate, whichever the situation required.<p>

"You want me to be your best man?" he asked, incredulous, for while there was no denying it was a nice gesture, Branson hardly knew the man outside of "Hello, Mr. Crawley; Goodbye, Mr. Crawley; To Ripon or Crawley House, Mr. Crawley?"

Matthew only beamed. "Of course! I couldn't think of anyone better."

"Not anyone? There must be someone you'd rather –"

"No. No I'm afraid not." Matthew looked slightly abashed, and Branson could see he would rather dismiss the topic completely; but Branson still felt the need to press the point.

"Your school mates?" he asked.

"Oh," Matthew scoffed. "Those friendships never last! You all move off to different parts of the country, get married, have children, and after a few years it's as though we never knew each other," he finished somewhat bitterly.

"But what about your job? Another lawyer? A friend from your practice?"

"Come now, Branson. It's not very professional to get overly friendly with co-workers."

Branson balked – if that was true then he should have been fired ten times over – but decided to simply let that one slide.

"How about an army friend?" he suggested next. "The people you fought along side with? I'm always hearing about the bonds soldiers make on the battlefield."

Branson saw Matthew clear his throat and – were his eyes deceiving him or was he blushing?

"Well," Matthew laughed. "You know what officers are like. Terribly cliquish, you know."

Branson looked unconvinced, but finally relented. "I'd be happy to do it, Matthew. But are you really sure?"

"Why not? You're here. You're family. And I do need one."

And the way Matthew looked at him just then, not with the eyes of a detached in-law, nor even with the patronizing pity of someone handing down a great favor, but rather with a small glimmer of sadness and eagerness, confirmed to Branson that Matthew did indeed need someone – and not just a best man.

A friend.

Branson smiled. For the first time in a long time he was very much at ease, for these past few days he'd felt rather lonely himself.

_I think I need one too._

"All right then, Matthew; I'd be honored to be your best man!"

"Excellent!"

Amidst the swirls of activity and shrieks of last minute arrangements shoulders were clapped and smiles exchanged. Although in a few hours the two would be brothers, over the years they would always mark this moment as when they became friends.

END

* * *

><p><em>So there it is! The crack explanation for why Matthew did not have a good friend to be his best man and had to ask Branson, as well as the jumping point for the teased bromance. Thanks for reading!<em>


	10. Edith and Tom: Driving Mr Branson

_Written for plums4peace, who requested a genfic with Edith and Branson either in Ireland at the wedding or during episode 3.01 and which touched upon their past history of driving lessons. Spoilers for 3.01!_

_Edited 08/04/13_

* * *

><p>Edith led the way.<p>

Out of the house, down the steps, across the yard – a pent up eagerness propelling her onwards at a rather fast clip. Eyes fixed forward, she occasionally chanced a glance to her side, where a trudging figure in muted browns walked silently and rather morosey beside her. Edith could sympathize. Even after over twenty-five years of practice, a Crawley family dinner still contained enough hazards to test her well-seasoned nerves, and last night had not exactly been kind to the prodigal couple.

Branson (or Tom, rather, as she mentally reminded herself), walking along the springy lawn, may have at that moment felt himself to be sinking into the earth; but Edith's spirits were high and buoyant that cool afternoon. She was proud of herself, for having maneuvered this entire scheme with such aplomb: the faint suggestion to Sybil – "It would be good for Tom to step out of the house for a time, don't you think?" Acquiring the necessary permission from Papa – "It would give some breathing room for Sybil, some time to reacquaint herself with the family without Tom always at her elbow." A perfect combination of altruism and finesse, united as only a true Lady can manage. But Edith was no Florence Nightingale, was not even a Sybil, and in all honesty the beneficiary of her machinations was mostly herself, the whole scheme meant to manufacture an opportunity for indulging in favorite yet now forbidden pastime.

Her breath quickened with anticipation as the scent of motor oil invaded. The garage was only a ten minute walk away, and upon arriving Branson peered inside his old stomping grounds, his feet edging in slowly, reluctant to breach the entrance. Edith thought to assure him that they hadn't installed any booby traps set especially for errant chauffeurs in his absence, but refrained.

"And his Lordship approved?" he asked warily.

"Of course he did." Edith charged inside. "I dare say he was rather looking forward to getting you out of the house for awhile."

Branson tensed, and Edith covered her mouth as she laughed. He tossed her a stern look, and the dense tension in the air began to deflate. The old Renault was hardly ever used these days, and Branson casually walked over to remove the heavy tarp draped over the motor, puffs of dust wafting up into the stale air.

"And are you sure he doesn't mind me driving?" he asked.

"I told him I was going out for a drive with you, and that he had the choice of either me or you at the wheel."

The last of unease on Branson's mien evaporated, leaving behind a residuum of his natural self-possession, which she truly never noticed until Ireland, until she saw the man in his natural habitat.

There was no mistaking it now:

"And he chose me?"

Edith sighed. "He hasn't forgotten what happened to the gear box three months ago. Pratt insisted it was all my doing."

"Probably was."

Edith frowned. He certainly had never dared such cheek before he was her brother-in-law.

Marriage must be suiting him.

"I could still change my mind, you know, and instead of driving about the country you could spend your afternoon taking tea with Granny…"

The small spark of fear reentered his eyes. "You don't have to be so hasty. I would like to take her out again, at least for old times sake."

"That's more like it!" Edith made to clamber up into the driver's side when an affronted voice stopped her.

"I thought you said his Lordship wanted me to do the driving?"

"I never would have thought you to be particular about something Papa says," she snapped. "And besides: I haven't driven in ages and I'm determined to do so today!"

"His Lordship said."

"Tea with Granny?"

Branson smiled. "How about a compromise: I'll drive there and you drive back?"

Edith paused to consider. "All right." And she slid across the bench to the passenger's side.

* * *

><p>Country lanes are by nature rough and dusty, and Branson as a rule detested them. Cars, in his opinion, were meant for the city, for the smooth, paved roads that spoke of progress and modernization.<p>

They jumbled pleasantly along. Edith, not for the first time, reveled in the short locks that no longer slapped against every spare inch of her face as the wind whipped them around. Her cheeks stung, for it was very early spring and the air had yet to warm; but she basked in the pain and the biting air and the utter freedom of it all.

"Do you get to do much driving back in Ireland?" she asked him with a smile.

"No. But sometimes I help out fixing up motors."

Edith laughed. "I wish I had the luxury. I suppose you can't keep yourself away?"

"Not really. We just need the money."

The remainder of Edith's laughter was gulped down into her throat. She didn't like talking about money, especially with him. As much as she knew Branson liked cars and liked fixing them – they'd spent enough time in this very car discussing details that no one else at Downton Abbey found even remotely interesting – it was uncomfortable to be reminded that her hobby also doubled as someone's occupation.

Branson drove around a few wide bends before striking the conversation back up.

"So Mr. Pratt doesn't like have you around the cars, then?"

"He's convinced Papa that there's no need. Not that Papa ever needed much convincing about things like that." She sighed with a floppy wave of her hand. "You know how he can be."

"I really don't know at all. I barely know the man, and I don't think I ever will."

"I wouldn't despair so much after only one day. Give it time; although I suppose you feel dreadfully out of place."

"Like a fish on dry land."

"And gasping for breath?"

Branson laughed. "I'll admit that some of your grandmother's looks are fit to kill." He turned to look at her. "Was it like that for you? In Ireland?"

"No," she replied. "Actually, I rather liked Ireland. Nobody expected anything out of me, and the company was…. pleasant, if nothing else."

"I'll be sure to let my family know how pleasant you found them."

Edith pulled a face. "You know what I mean." She caught a faint whiff of spring's cloying perfume in the passing air, breathed it deeply in. "But really, I did like it. It's always nice to go somewhere new."

"Better than being forced to come back some place old."

"Don't expect any pity from me. You knew what you were getting into when you married my sister. And I wouldn't worry, Tom, really I wouldn't. You'll learn to fit in better in time, and you're hardly the first person to feel out of place in that house."

There were no cars around, and Branson risked a second glance over to his sister. He observed that familiar strained sadness about her eyes, the slight purse in her lips – small signs which told him she was speaking from personal experience – not that he'd needed telling, for he'd driven around the Crawley family long enough to know which member was the odd one out.

* * *

><p>They had only a few minutes to admire the calming blue waters of the lake when the rainfall began.<p>

Edith tilted up her head to the clouds. "I thought it looked like rain…"

Branson removed his coat and held it over their heads as they huddled together. "Then why didn't you say so?" he asked as they trotted back towards the car. The impromptu cover did its best to save their hats from ruination, but they were both a bit moistened as they neared the car and Edith breathlessly exclaimed:

"I suppose I didn't care! I'd rather suffer a wet pair of stockings than miss out on a chance for a drive."

"So says the Lady with a closet filled with clothes…"

"It's hardly pouring out, and I'm sure your tie will be bone dry by dinner."

Branson opened the back seat door and inclined his head towards the interior. "Get in the car. I'll drive us back."

"What do you mean?" Edith argued. "We had a deal didn't we? You drove us here, and now I drive us back."

Branson shook his head. "You'll get soaked…"

"I don't mind! It's a spring rain; not the kind to give one a chill."

"I'm not going to let you get drenched while I sit in the back seat. I wouldn't be comfortable with it."

"I would think you'd be used to being uncomfortable by now. She shoved passed Branson, climbed into the unprotected driver's side, and motioned to the backseat. "Well, then. Get in!"

Branson was also in a mood for disobedience, and instead walked round the car and climbed in beside Edith.

"At least this way we'll both be uncomfortable," he explained.

"A move for social equality?"

He laughed. "Something like that."

The rain wasn't heavy – a slight drizzle that pattered soothingly on the roof of the car and made Branson feel as if he were strolling through the morning mists of Dublin, that perpetual thin blanket of moisture that never seemed to fully evaporate.

Droplets of water formed on Ediht's face and trickled jollily down as she drove. She looked positively gleeful, and Branson feared for her impaired vision. She always drove entirely too fast, as was her wont, and Branson, as was his wont whenever Edith clutched maniacally at the wheel, was disposed to forget there was no brake pedal set securely under his foot.

"You're going too fast!" he charged when said foot began to cramp.

Edith laughed. "Maybe that's why they won't let me drive anymore."

"But really, Edith, why don't they?"

Edith shrugged. "I suppose they don't think it's necessary, now that the war is over."

"Why should it matter if it's necessary, as long as you enjoy it?"

"I'm a Lady, Tom. None of us are supposed to know what's good for us, whether it's driving cars or choosing husbands. You of all people should know that," she said, and much too bitterly to be in reference to a mere revoked hobby.

"Are you talking about Sir Anthony?"

Edith was startled before she was indignant, taking a rather severe turn that nearly sent Branson flying out of the window.

"Rather observant, aren't we?" she said tersely as he rubbed the new bump in his head. "I haven't even said a word to Sybil and here you go on as if you know everything!"

Branson smiled, ignoring the "frightfully full of himself, indeed" which muttered audibly under Edith's breath. "Well. I was your chauffeur for six years. And your lot tends to have very loose lips when you're all out for a drive."

"Hmmm…. I thought I'd rather stopped that after our driving lessons."

"You got a bit better, I suppose. But even now Sybil still has trouble remembering that the people milling about aren't paid to keep her secrets."

"A few embarrassing moments in paradise?"

"More than a few," he replied, stone faced. They lapsed into silence for a time. "I'm sorry I brought it up," he said at last. "You don't have to talk about it."

"No, it's all right." She gave a tired sigh. "The thing is," she went on, "the more I try to convince him that we should be together, the more he pushes me away."

Branson was silent for a few minutes. "Is he in love with you?"

Edith pondered. "I believe he is. But he's got it in his head that he's far too old for me, and he feels so useless with that arm." She shook her head and tightened her grip on the wheel. "I don't understand it!"

"Sometimes people need time. If you know he loves you, then you'll just have to wait him out."

Edith looked dubious. "You really think that will work?"

"It did for me," he said, lips drawing up in a rather pert smile.

Edith laughed. Three years ago she had first climbed into the Renault, fresh faced and rather nervous about mastering such a complicated machine. She could barely control her own life, such as it was, and the sheer power of that rumbling engine had frightened her. But Branson had been a patient teacher, and over the months as his pupil he had become less of a stranger. And the power she felt when she finally had the roaring engine under her complete control had been the most liberating thing she'd ever experienced.

He helped me achieve that, Edith mused. I owe him a small part of my self-confidence. Knowing him as she did now, that realization was hardly surprising, since Tom Branson seemed the kind of man who had more than enough confidence to spare.

But now those lessons seemed very long ago, and Edith thought it should feel strange to be chauffeuring around her former chauffeur. But there was no awkwardness to be had, not even as they were now, sniping at each other like proper in-laws and swapping love advice. She'd lately decided that she rather liked having a brother, especially one that could drive, and who didn't mind being driven.

"Yes. I suppose it did work for you," Edith agreed as they drove through the gates. "And do you know, Branson?"

"What?"

Edith honked at a few scattered geese barring the road. "I'm rather glad for it!"

END


	11. Sybil and Tom: The Upside of Oppression

_Fic request from **3down1up**! _**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>The Upside of Oppression<strong>

The morning light tinted her hair with golds and yellows as she chattered on happily, draping herself in the turquoise dress brought especially for this joyous occasion. But for all the cheer of the moment, it was a lone voice that filled the air of their bedchamber, for her husband sat strangely pensive and silent on his side of the bed, not having moved even an inch since they had risen.

None of the other family stirred in the quiet house. Their early morning habits had carried over with them from a sea away. A few, probing questions would certainly have been an appropriate, wifely reaction to his taciturnity, but Sybil was content to leave him with only a gentle, yet ominous look before leaving to go wash up for the morning.

He watched her go, heart thumping. He knew she suspected something was amiss, but he needed to wait till she was gone before embarking on the dreaded task, feeling that he could not muster the courage to do it under her sweet yet ultimately judgmental gaze.

He slunk to the wardrobe and pulled out the offensive garment hidden within. Begrudgingly he slipped it over his shoulders, quelling the desire to rip it off and toss it out of the window.

His shoulders settled into the seams. He'd never owned a tailor made jacket before. It fit rather well, he thought – perfectly, in fact.

_I had no idea…._

But it was still the most uncomfortable thing he had ever worn in his life, and only in part due to the suffocating fit.

He frowned into the mirror. Despite the way it hugged close and snug he was sure he looked terrible in it, like a child dressed up in a costume. He would never be able to pull this look off; everyone would know instantly that he was playing a part, that he was the proverbial swine bearing the ring of gold in its snout.

And his morose features did nothing to improve the image before him. The innocent looking bit of fabric was the antithesis of everything he believed in, and his conscience screamed at being so perversely defied. It was indeed a very sad and underwhelming picture that presented itself in the mirror, and as he turned around to escape it he saw, to his horror, the door suddenly swing open to reveal his wife. She stopped abruptly at the threshold, eyes wide, toothbrush dangling out of the side of her mouth.

"I fowgom suming," she said.

"What?"

She strode to the washbasin and spat out the contents of her mouth.

"I forgot something," she said again.

"Oh." She didn't move to retrieve the supposed forgotten object, and simply stared. Branson couldn't bear the delighted surprise in her eyes, and focused on the smears of white at the corners of her lips. "What are you staring at?" he finally growled.

Sybil clasped her hands. "Well…."

"What?"

"You're wearing a morning coat…"

Tom took a deep breath. He had prepared a speech for this exact moment. Of course he prepared speeches for almost every moment, and he felt he could easily pass her observation off as something less than the extraordinary occurrence it was.

"Of course I'm wearing a morning coat!" he casually scoffed. "I'm going to a _wedding_."

Sybil's mouth sighed as her eyes roved over the ceiling.

"I see. How silly of me."

Tom went back to inspecting himself in the mirror. He turned this way. He turned that way. He longed for a few minutes of solitude to bear the torture in peace, but it was not to be. His wife was a nosy creature, and before long he saw in the mirror her little chestnut head peeking around the side of his shoulder.

"It fits rather well, doesn't it?" she said.

"Yes." He buttoned the sleeves.

"Have you ever owned anything like this?"

"You know I haven't." He straightened the collar.

"Well, I for one think you look rather nice!" she said as she snaked her arms about his middle.

He shook her off. "Just stop it, Sybil!" he charged while crossing the room.

"What? I'm _trying_ to compliment you!"

"I know what your thinking…."

"I _really_ don't think you do." She sat beside him on the bed where he had just somewhat childishly slumped. "You don't have to look so glum. You're going to a _wedding_, after all, and Papa, at least, will be pleased."

"I suppose he'll think he's won," he pouted.

"What have I told you? We're not in some kind of a battle with him! Although…. I can't imagine how anyone got you into a _morning coat_, and obviously with enough time to get it tailored just right." She gave him a piercing look. "Who was it?"

"What do you mean?" he asked with feigned ignorance.

Sybil's lips curled, settling on the "wicked" smile that Tom had particularly come to rue.

"Who got you to wear it?"

He bolted upright. "Nobody got me to do anything!" he cried heatedly. "I just decided it would be the right thing to do."

"Two days ago you told me they'd have to kill you before you'd wear one of their 'oppressive costumes'."

"And then I changed my mind."

Sybil burst out laughing. "You," she wheezed, "'_changed_ your mind'?" Her husband did not appear pleased as he waited for her laughing fit to cease, and she made a futile attempt to smother it prematurely.

A good solid minute passed before the tittering died down. "Are you finished?" he asked.

"Yes," she giggled. "But really, Tom, you'll have to do better than that!" She giggled again. "Was it Matthew?"

"Matthew would never force me to do anything I was uncomfortable with. He _understands_ me, unlike _some_ people…"

"Well I know it wasn't Mary. She would have gloated about it to me by now. Papa?" Branson looked offended. "Cousin Isobel?" Still offended, but with that telltale hue of pink creeping into his ears. "Oh, I see. And of course she _did_ ask you to call the other day…."

"It's not what you're thinking –"

"And I think – yes I'm _sure_! – I remember Granny saying she was stopping by Crawley House that same afternoon!" Her wicked smile reemerged. "Tom," she said seriously, confidingly. "Did my grandmother force you into a morning coat?"

"Please, Sybil," he scoffed, his dismissive tone belied by his rapidly increasing breathing rate. "The woman is at least 80 years old. She can't_ force_ me to do anything."

Sybil took his hand.

"Were there other people there? Did Molesley see it happen?"

He snatched his hand away, face hot.

"I'm not going to talk about it if you're just going to make fun of me!"

The giggles were threatening to make a reappearance, but she held them at bay, for his sake. "I'm sorry Tom, I really am. I know how Granny can be." She stroked his hair soothingly as his features softened. "Was it hard?" she crooned sympathetically.

"It was terrible!" he cried. "She just sat there and ordered me to put it on." He buried his face into her neck. "They made Molesley measure my shoulder seams!"

"Oh, darling!" Sybil cried. "Don't feel so badly. She does it to everybody, you know."

He pulled back to look at her.

"What? She humiliates everybody?"

"Yes she does. And it's just something you'll have to get used to."

Branson sighed. "Maybe you're right." He looked at her pleadingly. "Just don't tell my mother about any of this."

"Of course not!"

"Or any of my brothers!"

"Well that goes without saying." She beamed. "But I am proud of you. For wearing it, that is. I know how hard it must be for you."

"Do you?" He gave a small, sardonic laugh. "After all the fight I've put up about it, I know what you must be thinking –"

"You keep saying that, darling, but I _really_ don't think you do." Any residual self-pity evaporated in the wake of his wife's words, and the tone in which she spoke them – _that_ tone – which he'd come to know rather well, and which almost always accompanied the smoldering glow that had just then taken over her dark eyes. "Like I said before: I think you look very, very…_nice_."

The sleeves were unbuttoned.

The collar was unstraightened.

And while Tom would have never believed so before that morning, he decided there might be some upsides to oppressive costumes after all.

* * *

><p><em>I think this is the closest to innuendo I have ever done. And I don't think I will do it every again, haha.<em>

_Thanks for reading!  
><em>


	12. Tom: In Gratitude

**In Gratitude**

The phone rings and he automatically moves to answer, one of those in-between household tasks that's somehow fallen on to him, lumped into the same lot as walking Isis and giving rides when the chauffeur has the day.

So it is he that takes the call. He greets the caller and a scratchy voice answers, but he hears nothing beyond the second sentence – _we're sorry to inform you…Mr. Crawley….accident – _and slowly lowers the receiver back onto the stand, cutting off the officer mid-sentence.

Too stunned to grieve or even comprehend, he turns towards the family still gathered in celebration, and walks over to them on what must be instinct alone, for he will remember none of it later, not the final sight of their faces, happy in ignorance, or the way Cora's brow begins to frown as she notices his silent distress.

"Tom?" she asks, head tilting. "Who was that?"

The smiles drop. They are all looking at him.

He does not answer their question, and sits down. "Matthew's dead," he says, slow and quiet like a well-sharpened knife.

Every faces alters, his words visibly sinking in, and the only things he will truly recollect from that moment: the shock which sits on the Dowager's face, and the ringing in his ears as Cora's scream cuts through the room.

* * *

><p>Mary is carried home from the hospital and barricades herself in her room, Anna and Anna alone the only one ever welcomed. Edith flies off to London to evade another round of misery with the dim excuse of her column. Cora manages his Lordship with whatever strength she has left, while the Dowager has taken it upon herself to see to Mrs. Crawley.<p>

So he is left alone, which would make him sad, except that he is used to it.

Used to solitude, used to sorrow. Used to lonely, empty hours filled with tears and regret. It is why he cannot cry for Matthew, or anyone else for that matter. He must keep his sorrow in perspective, lest it become irrelevant, and decides that it would be a mockery of his tears to be used on anything but her memory.

But he can't deny that it hurts. The sting is real and plentiful, and never more so than when he is in hiding, clacking balls together on a dull evening. He is grateful when Mrs. Hughes peeks her head inside the door, the first hint of life he has seen since dinner ended.

"Mr. Branson, would you mind if I came in for a moment?" He and the housekeeper still stand upon some ceremony, but not enough to stop her from entering before he gives approval, though he still nods his head anyway as she reclaims the few rags that had been left behind from the morning rounds.

When she has finished her errand she comes to stand beside him, unable to let go of distance in his eyes, or the fact that he is leaning against a billiards table, apparently doing nothing.

"I don't want to intrude," she begins, and his mind reels. _Of course you do. You always do_. "But is everything all right?"

_Clack, clack, clack_. The balls strike more forcefully than he intended. It's a silly question and he wants to laugh. Instead of answering he says, "Matthew taught me how to play."

"Really?" She looks genuinely surprised. "I had thought you'd have known how to play billiards before then. Most men do."

He smiles, and rolls another across the smooth, green felt. It slows as it nears the pocket, teeters on the edge, but does not fall. "What I mean is that he taught me how to play _well_. I'd never played much before, and I was terrible at it. I would have never thought about playing here, except that –" He stops and looks up, into the face that readily plies information, and continues without insistence. "That first night back –it didn't seem like anyone wanted me here and I'd wanted to move to the Grantham arms, but Matthew stopped me. After dinner he asked me to play for the first time. I hadn't wanted to, but then I remembered…"

"What?"

"That Matthew had always been nice, so I said yes. I know he was trying to make me feel comfortable, but the thing is, it was never _him _that made me feel uncomfortable." His eyes draw together as he shakes his head. "I always wondered why he asked me, why he tried. He didn't owe me anything. He didn't even know me."

"Well. As you said: He was a nice man. Isn't that enough of a reason?"

Tom doesn't think so. He looks back down as the ball finally falls in, and as he accompanies Mrs. Hughes out the door he wonders why he keeps coming back here, when there is no longer anyone to play with.

* * *

><p>Mary emerges for the funeral, and when it is over she ascends silently up to her room to continue her exile.<p>

Edith returns and his Lordship and Ladyship begin to resume their natural patterns. Routines are broken but mending. These days, after the first long year had elapsed, he visits her not daily, but at least once a week, usually three, and now he supposes he should change his perception of the walk to the cemetery to visiting _them_.

He always walks alone. He wonders if that will one day change as well.

This day it is mostly Sybbie on his lips, and when he finishes regaling her with every new word and milestone he passes her marker to find one freshly dug and adorned with too many flowers.

There is nothing more final than an epitaph engraved in stone – this he knows – and though he had seen the casket and sung the hymns and watched him lowered into the earth, it is only now that those heralding words – _Matthew's dead_ - at last sink in.

It hits him like a sack of stones, and he hears his voice choking. "It doesn't seem right without you. Nothing seems right," he whispers to no one. He had been utterly alone after Sybil, or so he had thought, and only now with Matthew gone does he realize: "I don't know why but you were always there for me, even after the worst. And I didn't know how much…. how much that meant until you were gone." He pauses before adding the next part. "I never thanked you for it. And I know it's too late now, but –"

He stops as he realizes he does not know how to finish his sentence.

As he leaves he does not feel weightless. There is nothing lifted from his weary soul stacked with too many burdens. There never is on the walk back; but once he arrives, once he chats with Edith and visits the nursery, the pain subsides back into its resting place. He is alone, but he wasn't always, and for that he is grateful.

_but –_

Sybbie smiles at him, and he smiles back. Elsewhere in the house is another child and his mother, locked away in mourning, and he thinks it is finally time he spoke to Mary.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading :)<em>


	13. Sybil and Tom: February, 1920

_Hello! This will be the final installation to this anthology of ficlets, and includes all the references to the missing Ireland scenes and storylines that were alluded to from spoilers or the show. It's also a Valentine's Day fic, which is obviously over a month late, but there it is._

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><p><strong>February, 1920<strong>

Incidentally, Valentine's Day coincided with her last day of work.

Sybil hugged her co-workers, assuring them she'd be back as soon as the baby was weaned, and even kissed the wet cheeks of Mrs. Finnegan, her revered mentor who'd lost many a young and promising protégé to motherhood.

"But I _will_ be back," Sybil said once again as she extricated herself from the viselike hug.

Mrs. Finnegan sighed. "That's what they all say."

Sybil offered nothing else beyond the final, perfunctory farewells. In truth she could have easily put her mentor's mind to rest, could have frankly explained that aside from personal desire there were rather precarious financial issues at stake that would eventually drive Sybil back into the workforce. But instead she only smiled cheerfully, and informed them that she'd return to them after Christmas.

Brisk wind chilled her face, and her cheerful smile faded as she walked away into the darkening streets. The topic was largely avoided at home, but the money troubles had left Tom rather humiliated. But Sybil could not be ashamed of the predicament. How could she, when he worked so tirelessly, endless hour after endless hour, surviving on fumes as he wrote for one of the underground rebel newspapers? The paper, nearly bankrupt, and barely able to scrape together enough to cover publishing costs, paid next to nothing monetarily, though its purpose was priceless; and however much he might beseech her that it'd be best to quit and find a job that actually paid, she refused to consent. This was Ireland's time – _his_ time – she would argue. Hadn't he set his dreams aside, all those long years, while he waited for her? This narrow strip of their life where they occasionally relied on her father's allowance would not last forever. Let them be temporarily and privately mortified, she would repeatedly tell him, if it meant that he could play his part during such a crucial time in his beloved country's life.

For his part Tom loved his job, did not want to leave it, and had to agree that her logic was sound; but it still smarted him, each and every time she made a trip to the bank. It was why she often did it without his knowledge, just as she did now – her second to last stop before she set the key to the lock of the front door of their flat.

He was already home, halfway lying on the sofa, eyes drooping. They snapped open when her head darted in, and she noticed that he looked more tired than usual. But as she walked fully through the door and his awakened gaze landed on her, his face lit up.

He stood up to greet her, embracing her as he said, "I didn't think I'd get home before you."

She kissed his cheek – "I made a stop" – and grinned, holding out her purchase.

Tom accepted it cautiously and rummaged through the bag, a delicate paper thing housing an ornate pastry box. He blinked slowly, his confusion evident.

"A cake?" he asked.

"It _is_ Valentine's Day." His face turned expressionless. "You forgot, didn't you?"

Now he had the audacity to look aghast, offending her even further with, "I did not. I'll have you know it's one of my favorite holidays of the year."

"Somehow I doubt that."

She would rue her words later, as they dined on leftover meat pie. Sybil squinted in the darkness as she searched for her next bite.

"You simply had to insist on candlelight," she said with an exasperated note.

"It _is_ Valentine's Day."

She complained enough through dinner that afterwards he relented, allowing that their desert be eaten under the auspices of the bright lamplight bathing the living room. Shoes off, hair down; it was something close to bliss as Sybil curled up next to him on the sofa, a small plate balanced on her lap, half a slice already digesting, and barely concentrating as they stuffed themselves with chocolate cake and traded the day's news.

Tom leaned over to discard his empty plate onto the sofa table, and settled his arm around her shoulders. "And how was your last day?" he asked.

"Tearful." She swallowed one last, big mouthful. "But none of them my own, thankfully."

"What, you weren't sad to be going?"

"I suppose, but not enough to cry over. And actually, I was rather pleased at how sad they all were when I left."

"As heartless as you are beautiful. How very English of you."

She sent his ribs a poke. "Don't tease me. What have I told you about our feelings?"

He laughed and batted her hand away. "Only that you occasionally have them. And most of the time I believe you but it'd be nice to have proof once in awhile."

"I think I give you proof enough." She bent down slightly, her plate joined his on the table, and she slid further into his arms, resting her head against his chest. "I only meant that after all the trouble I had when I first started working at the clinic, how out of place I felt, wondering if I would ever be accepted…. it felt good to see that I would be missed."

Such disarming humility, so at odds with the pride he wore on his sleeve, never failed to astound him. "You're as kind and goodhearted as you are beautiful. How could you ever think otherwise?"

She disdained his wanton flattery with only a slight blush, and instead spoke of the people with whom she had parted that afternoon.

"Who was the worst out of the lot?" he asked.

She sighed. "Mrs. Finnegan. She practically drenched my blouse. Poor thing, she didn't believe me about coming back."

"Most women don't."

Her face split. "And most women aren't me!"

_Thank God for that, _he sent up the silent prayer, as genuine as it was rare,because he didn't thank Him for much, but for her he seemed to always make the exception.

Sybil continued on, her voice soft and permeating, like the lower register of a string of bells, relaying the little details of the day as his tired eyes slowly, mercifully closed. Soon a picture began to bloom. Colorful wisps of images sprouted in his mind, of Sybil – loving and being loved, completely in her element, charming, peaceful, and bright enough to chase away the shadowy memories of his own, much less congenial day –

_Dark whispers._

_Uneasiness creeping through his bones. _

_Actions that were cruel as they were necessary, he felt – but he would not be the voice of opposition._

She knew nothing about his regular meetings with the insurrectionists, and she never would, he had decided. Not that he feared her disapproval. On the contrary, there was the distinct probability that she might demand to join him in the planning sessions. No, it was not her response that spiked his blood with dread, for there was only one thing on this earth that he feared –

_When they asked why he was killed, the officer said, "Because he was probably a rebel."_

Love gone. Charm ruined. Peace drowned out by the call to fire, and the brightness of her eyes fading like forgotten embers. And so he had determined that she could not know, could never know, not as long as –

"You seem rather preoccupied."

He searched out her face, and could see that beneath the lightweight banter she had sensed something was troubling him. After a moment or two of pronounced silence he responded.

"Do I?"

"I just said you did." There was quiet once more. "Is there something you want to talk about?"

"It's nothing, love, really," he said, shrugging away her concern. "But one of these articles I'm writing…. it looks like the British government is on a recruitment drive. They've had advertisements going in England these last few weeks, asking for volunteers to come to Ireland and help bolster the RIC."

Sybil's head notched up and she looked into his face, surprised. "That's the first I've heard of it. How many men are they looking for?"

"I can't say for sure. Thousands, maybe."

"Thousands?" Now she was upright, staring dead into his eyes. "Isn't that somewhat extreme?"

"Not when you're fighting a war, which is what this is," he shot back a bit testily.

Sybil let it slide. He was always testy when he was tired. "Oh darling, I wouldn't fret. It won't be long now, at least I don't think so, and things will be different this time. Ireland will come out of this with its freedom. We both know that."

"But at what cost? And when? Are the English only willing to hand Ireland back over to its people after they've razed it to the ground?" He sat up, agitation in his eyes. "I don't understand why they keep resisting, why they're trying to delay the inevitable."

"Sometimes politicians can't see the changes that _are_ inevitable."

He watched for several confused moments the coy smile curling up into her face before the memory alighted. "Is that so?" he said, thoughts of pamphlets and car rides trailing in their shared laughter. It had not been so many years, but still seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Yes it is. And I should know. It once was that women couldn't vote, and now some women can vote, and I hope and believe that some day, in a very short time, I might be casting my own ballot."

"But suffrage –"

" – is not so very different a thing. I'm a prisoner as long as I have no voice, and so we're both fighting for freedom, in our own ways."

"But your fight won't be nearly as bloody." He touched her face, stroked her loose hair back and ran his palm down her cheek as she watched him, achingly silent, because there was nothing more she could say. "I just worry," he finally said, casting a meaningful glance down, where the smallest protrusion began evincing to the world her condition.

"I know you do. But we've decided our way, together. And we're going to see it through."

The clock on the mantle began ringing. It was late and they were both tired, and life wouldn't stop for this holiday or the next. Leaving the dirty dishes where they lay to be dealt with at a later time, they headed for the stairs, and had reached the landing before the final hour struck.

Sybil found her way in the darkness down the hall and into their room, and then to the lamp outlined by the moonlight seeping in through the half drawn window. She switched it on, and was shocked to see a small and daintily wrapped package resting on her pillow.

She cast him an accusatory look. "Tom? What's this?"

"What does it look like? It's your Valentine's Day present."

"You said you'd forgotten!"

"_You _said I'd forgotten. I said it was one of my favorite holidays of the year."

She plopped onto the bed and tore in, the sound of rustling soon replaced by a shrill yet delighted squeal that penetrated the room, enough to make a man wince even, though he dared not. "Strawberries in February?" She smiled widely, her eyes still shining with disbelief. "But you told me it couldn't be done!"

"Not on my salary. Or yours, for that matter. But I snuck into your stocking drawer and borrowed a bit from your father."

She gave a mock frown. "Strange, but you seemed rather adamant just yesterday about not wanting to use any more of "that" money."

"I wanted it to be surprise; I had to throw you off my scent somehow. And besides, the man lives in a house with eighty bedrooms. He can spare a few shillings for his daughter's mad cravings."

She laughed. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you! Look Tom, I know you don't like it, but we can pay him back, every penny of it, once this war is over and you become a world-famous journalist."

"You've got a lot of faith – too much, if you ask me."

She just smiled, and laid tummy-down onto the bed, palms propping up her face as she said, "Just hedging my bets."

He gave a rueful laugh. "And do you still think you'll turn out a winner?"

She just smiled again, and beckoned him to the bed. He laid down beside her, his arm as a makeshift pillow under his head. "A world famous journalist," he mused. "I think it sooner that you'll become a famous and expensive lady doctor…. except knowing you you'd end up fixing everyone up for free and we'd still be broke."

"Well, who needs money when we've got this?" she said with a kiss to his temple.

And although the day had been long, and tomorrow would see another full of endless tasks, of winter cold and not enough coal, of fear and bloodshed and a host of enemies amassing across the sea and growing stronger by the hour, when the lights finally went off sleep was long in coming, for tonight there was nothing but him and her, and the promise of the future life that slept safeguarded between them.

"And after all," she would whisper as dawn approached, "it _is_ Valentines day."

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading :)<em>


	14. Sybil and Branson: Not Completely

_I know this is not the story people wanted to see updated (and one that I already claimed was completed) but I just couldn't resist! Written from a spurt of inspiration due to some new scenes in the script book: An exchange between Sybil and Branson in the kitchen, and a baffling (and blink if you miss it) exchange between Cora and Sybil._

_Takes place during episode 201._

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><p><strong>Not Completely<strong>

"_Not everyone, apparently!"_

The cook's rejoinder fell, aptly enough, like a butcher's knife on her confidence, cleaving it in two. Over the peals of laughter Sybil could do little else but promise she would work very hard, if given the chance.

"Of course you'll have the chance, milady," Mrs. Patmore replied. She strutted over to Sybil and plucked the kettle out of her hands. "But _after_ we've cleaned up this mess."

A flurry of efficient hands descended on the spills and wreckage. Sybil wanted to help with the cleaning, truly she did. She felt awful enough that she had disrupted the kitchen staff's day without creating extra work for them with her bungling. But before she could even blink, much less locate a mop (and did she even know how to use one?), Sybil was summarily hedged out of the cleaning frenzy, and ultimately shooed back upstairs.

_Back where I belong._

She trudged up the steps with a failing heart. Eighteen years old, and she couldn't even fill a kettle. "Lord, I am a joke!"

But she didn't want to be. She wanted to be clever and useful, not what amounted to a door prize for an antiquated ballroom dance.

Sybil flopped onto her bed, face buried in the pillow. She could see it in the downy darkness, her first day at York. There, she would look up into the tall, sharp faces of women with calloused hands and trained minds. And they would look down at her rich coat and fine hat, the chauffeur carrying her luggage behind her, and they would throw their heads back and laugh. Laugh good and hard, laugh just as the kitchen maids had laughed – because who wouldn't laugh at such complete and utter uselessness?

Sybil propped herself up on her elbows. _I need a walk_. She rolled onto her back and pushed herself off, momentum propelling her out the door. A walk to clear her head, yes, that's exactly what she needed. And if her feet took her, as they were wont, in the general direction of the yard, where perhaps the chauffeur, as he was wont, might be tinkering around with the car, well –

"Hello, Branson." _Well thank God for serendipity._

Branson popped up from where he was squatting. "Good morning, Lady Sybil." Sybil nearly choked. Next to the glistening Renault he stood, from his neck down to his shoes, simply _covered_ in filth.

"Heavens, what's happened to you?"

"This?" He looked down over himself. "Cleaning the tires. The worst part of the job, if you must know."

Wary yet curious, Sybil toed her way forwards, gingerly leaning over to examine what must be the filthiest task ever conceived involving automotive travel and maintenance. "And also the dirtiest?"

He picked up a rag hanging off the side mirror, wiping his hands to no avail. "Well I've only got one of them done and already I look like this. You can judge for yourself." Sybil laughed. "And what about you, milady?" he went on, a slight shift in his cadence, unsparing of the deferential suggestion that was absent just moments before. "Is there something you needed?"

_Many somethings_. To start with, a way to unwaste the last ten years of her life. But that had nothing to do with the motors, so –

"No." She looked away, to the naked trees. She shivered slightly; the air was cold and in her haste she had forgotten her coat. "I was just out for a walk. I needed the air."

"I can imagine. Not used to the stuffiness downstairs, I take it?"

Sybil looked at him and frowned. "Then you've heard."

"About you giving the kitchen a bath?" He smiled. "Yes, I did hear about that."

"Oh, don't tease me, please." She crossed the distance between them until she stood directly opposite. "I may have made a mess of it, but I'll have you know I'm not completely useless."

"I never said you were, m'lady."

She shrugged. "Not with words, maybe."

"Then with what?"

She paused. She almost turned and walked away. But the sincerity in his gaze held her; he wasn't toying with her. He wanted answers, not a riposte, and for the one who sought her heart rather than her hand she would happily oblige: "I know what you must think of me. You and everyone else. I see it in your eyes – I can't do anything useful, can't so much as fill a kettle. I rely totally and completely on others to do everything for me." She paused again, expecting the gap to be filled. But he did not contradict her. He did not say anything, and she felt the brutality in the silence.

She laughed ruefully. "So it's true then, isn't it? I suppose I am rather foolish and silly. Just a girl who's never once done anything for myself, so how could I possibly hope to help others?"

His face and posture were fixed, but his blue eyes shifted ceaselessly. She had put him in an awkward position, she knew, and not only then. These days every meeting or passing word seemed fraught, only one or two degrees shy of boiling over.

"M'lady, you say that you don't want to fail at your training course. And that's why you want to learn to cook and to clean. To be 'useful,' yes?"

"More than anything."

He tossed her the rag. She caught it in one hand, surprise and reflex keeping her from sidestepping the nasty thing altogether. She held it in her palm, staring at it as if it was infected, and then him as if he was mad.

"Well, then." He nodded towards the car. "Get to work."

Her jaw dropped. "Pardon?"

"You say you want to work. So work. It's the only way you'll learn how."

"Absolutely not!" She laughed. "Honestly, Branson, I'm not going to clean the tires for you!"

"And why not? You'll do messier jobs than that as a nurse, I guarantee it."

"But, Branson, I don't even know –"

"What's to know? There's the bucket, there's the sponge. You scrub and you clean."

Prepossession marked his gaze, and she knew he was thinking to call her bluff. But she knew what kind of hand she held, and by God if she ever backed down from a challenge.

She folded her arms across her chest. "All right I will." _And then you'll see._

She banished him, not wanting someone looming over her shoulder to inspect her inadequacy. Then she donned one of the heavily stained aprons hanging from a row of hooks in the garage, the same ones she had often seen and quickly dismissed.

Sybil dragged the rag, pinched between her forefinger and thumb, through the opaque and scummy water. Every part of her balked, especially her nose, which was rather uncertain about those little miscreant bits bobbing along the surface. It took her a good five minutes to finally (and quite literally) take the plunge, and when she brought her hand up out again she was shocked at how little had changed. There was nothing momentous or grand; her axis hadn't shifted and she felt no different than she had before, save that her hand was wet and her inhibitions slightly lowered. With a small laugh she squeezed the rag and set to, scrubbing and cleaning, working muscles which heretofore had been unknown to her, feeling kinks in all the wrong places. She had focus and intention, and was immersed in her task to the point of not noticing the hours slipping by.

"M'lady?"

Sybil shot up. Her hair hung damp around her face, her body hot and heedless of the chilly air despite being soaked straight to her skin, muck licking every ounce of her apron and even some parts beyond. But her eyes breathed exhilaration as she stood with great pride by her achievement.

"Look here, Branson!" She gestured excitingly to the glimmering and spotless tire. "I cleaned it! Just as you instructed!" She breathed in deeply. "Doesn't it look marvelous?"

"You cleaned one?"

"Yes! You see it right there!"

"In two hours?"

That's when she paused to look at him. Mouth slightly ajar, he might have looked less stunned if she'd slapped him. "Well…." She swallowed. "How long should it have taken?"

"M'lady, usually I do all four in half that time."

"Oh."

"Or less."

"Oh. I see." She smiled, deflated. "Not that I should be surprised. After all, why should I be able to do anything, even the simplest thing, with any kind of efficiency?" She laughed, a hollow sound. "I'm completely useless, aren't I?"

She turned and walked quickly away, no voice of protest calling after her. When she reached the house she crept up the servant's stairs and summoned Anna, and together they changed Sybil out of her dripping, ruined garments and transformed her once again into the sleek facade of her kind, the only anomaly left of her time abroad her hands, stained an unforgiving black and which would not be left without comment by her relations. So Sybil dismissed Anna with the request that a bottle of turpentine be sent up, and she spent an unrelenting hour correcting the error until every inch of skin was scrubbed pink and raw.

She examined her hands, turning them over. Now pristine, they no longer looked like a Lady's hands. They looked sturdy and common – hands of experience. But though appearances might deceive, they didn't fool her, didn't alter the fact that they were still her hands, and therefore still –

_Useless._

Sybil was not a practiced brooder, but this war had ruptured something foundational within. She seemed to question everything these days, not the least of which herself – her future, her present place in the world – and that night in the parlor she sat on the sofa with a glassy-eyed stare at the hearth, dwelling in a mire of unvoiced thoughts.

Granny rose. "Goodbye, my dears. We'll discuss the arrangements for the concert tomorrow." Papa escorted her out the door.

The sound of the grand door closing, a quiet lull. And then she heard it – outside of the window on the drive, the sound of an engine spurting to life. For Sybil, who knew nothing of mechanics, she thought it almost magical, how this tangled contraption, so elegant on the outside, could hold such raw and undiminished power within. Motors were beautiful – she'd seen Branson's adoring gaze as he worked on the Renault often enough to attest to that – but they were also terribly useful, and both of those elements worked for each other rather than against.

And then she remembered that sitting and doing nothing was not her way, and recalled his words that surely applied to more than just cleaning a set of tires:

_Get to work._

The next morning Sybil found her way back down to the kitchen, to the place where it had all began. Mrs Patmore was not one to ever stop moving, and Sybil accosted her on her way from oven to the pantry, asking that if she were not very busy, then:

"Do you think I could try again?"

"Of course, milday." She chuckled. "I was wondering when you'd come down and ask."

She set her under Daisy's supervision. And over the next few days Sybil did try. And fail. She burnt the soup and overcooked the rice. The stove had to be cleaned four times in one day, and when the soup over boiled the fifth time she had each grate scrubbed spotless in only half an hour. By the end of the week she was a mess of singed hair and broken nails, with an ugly scar across her thumb when she had forgotten the oven mitt.

But on the stove there finally bubbled a potful of something that looked, if not quite edible, then fairly close.

Mrs. Patmore cast an impressed eye over Sybil's shoulder. "Well, well, milady. Not bad. Not bad at all."

Delighted, the next steps in her learning regime were planned, schemes for baking a cake were gleefully hatched. And it was then that Sybil noticed the chauffeur leaning casually and not-so-inconspicuously against the doorframe, observing her with amused eye. Flush with triumph, Daisy and the other girls giggling beside her, she simply couldn't resist:

"You see, Branson! I'm not completely useless."

For despite the odds, it felt good to prove to him and everyone else that, useless though she may be, she could at least do _some_ things right.

But then he already knew that.

"I never said you were, m'lady."


End file.
